Alphabet
by Underwater Owl
Summary: V for VendettaDeath Note crossover. The world's best detective is asked by the world court to investigate Chancellor Sutler, and to gather evidence for his prosecution. Suddenly, the Old Bailey is destroyed, and another letter is on the scene. Codename V.
1. an angry fix

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by

madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn

looking for an angry fix,

_This is what it feels like to be poised on the brink. __His mask is ready and waiting by the door. He has sharpened each and every one of his knives. His clothes are neatly pressed, jacket on a wooden hanger in his closet._

_For the moment, he stands in Valerie's alcove, as he thinks of it, and dutifully tends to his roses, that until now have been her roses. As he gently tips the watering can, he wonders which of the blossoms he will pick first._

_This is what it feels like to be poised on the brink.__ V expected that there would be more worry than __this,__ he expected to be pacing and duelling imaginary foes._

_Instead, everything is still. This is what it feels like to be poised on the brink._

**Chapter One**

**October 31st**

**Apartment of L Lawliet**

**Japan**

The world has become a darker place. This is one of those undeniable truths. Everyone pretends not to realize, expects no one to acknowledge, and just generally don't like to think about. It's not just the war; that's over, and America is what one might call a ruined country, now. It's not just England, with the fascists and Nazi-esque policies. It's not just that the crime rates in Japan spiked dramatically since Kira's justice vanished so suddenly. There's something else wrong.

L chalks it up to the rolling waves of refugees. It's the men and women coming in from ruined America, and anyone of colour, or of a different creed, running away from England and her concentration camps.

Part of it, of course, is the orphanages that have sprung up, practically on every street corner. Asia has reached out her arms, and caught the drowning people, and is struggling now to keep above the flood. Everyone knows it, and tries not to resent the food they give to the starving, but luxury is becoming sparse and very few people are happy.

That is what is different. No one smiles in the streets any more. L thinks back to sitting in a coffee shop with his enemy-friend, his feet curled up. He cannot remember if he was eating or not, but he knows that he enjoyed being able to sit leisurely and verbally tangle. To do that all afternoon, and have no one around them notice or care.

It's not the changes to more modest means that has been bothering Lawliet. New buildings have become a luxury of the past; now he works out of an apartment in Tokyo. But he can do what he does with just a few computers and his very well placed net of informants. It's not even Watari's death, though he will miss his friend terribly. Most surprisingly it's not that nothing he does any more can nearly measure up to catching Kira. He had thought that that would bother him, having reached his peak at twenty five.

What it is, he can say almost certainly, is how little good he feels like he's doing. Discovering who is committing the murders in such and so a county, when he _knows _which politicians are withholding grain shipments to the United States has him feeling, well, nearly completely useless.

This, above all else, is why he says 'yes.' He doesn't even need to cut the transmission from the secretary general to read the faxes he's been sent. He simply bends down, speaks into the device he still uses to scramble what he sounds like, and says he'll do it.

Funny, how much less grief he gets for his secrecy, ever since it was discovered that you could murder a man just by knowing a man and seeing his face. If that's all it takes to use a Death Note, then people have started figuring, what else is out there?

Half an hour later, he has the three best and brightest people he knows, sitting on the couches Watari chose for him before they found out the cancer had spread. Mello is scratching at the place where the threads are growing ragged on the arm rest. Near is sitting up straight; somewhere, he grew out of a lot of his nervous habits. But L knows he carries a plastic toy superman in his pocket, where so ever he should go.

"This isn't what we do normally," says Matt, curiously, stretching out on L's and extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray. His long fingers flip through the pages L has provided them. Near is reading closely. Mello is glancing between the first sentence of each paragraph and Matt, like he's trying to read his expression more attentively than the words. Matt speaks again, "And it's nothing like what you do on your own. You've asked for our help before, L, but this is fucking _huge._"

L nods, and stirs his tea. He doesn't usually let them get away with these kinds of questions. Usually, the case is they want to help, or they don't. But Matt, you see, showed up on his doorstep, unannounced, the day of Watari's funeral. L hadn't even known he didn't want to be alone, but somehow Matt had. So Matt had pushed in, with four full grocery bags, and had dragged him into the kitchen and spent a whole week with him cooking cheesecake, until L could do it exactly right and just the way he liked. Since then, Matt has been able to get away with a lot of things, as L is extremely fond of him.

"That is why I am asking for the help of the three of you. It might be overambitious to pursue this alone." L is aware that this is a massive, disastrously huge understatement. Mello glares at him, calling him on it. But surprisingly, he's not the first one to voice his objections. Near has set the papers down on the coffee table, and reached for his own cup of tea. He drinks it with milk, but not sugar, which L considers to be absolutely disgusting. Aside from that, L is also very fond of Near, whose voice is level as ever;

"This is very dangerous. I assume you have already agreed to become involved, regardless of which of us join with you?" When L nods, once, and makes a small affirmative noise, this seems to be good enough for Near. "Well, then perhaps we should go over what information we have. Adam Sutler came to power in..."

"Wait a fucking second," Mello snaps, and drops a hand onto Matt's shoulder. L has noticed that Mello always needs to be touching Matt when he wants to stand up to something L is doing. Matt seems not to mind, and they rest of the people L works with have learned not to assume that it means Matt thinks the same has he does.

He also knows that this is not the case when Mello and Near argue, which is worrisome because it either suggests that he does not completely respect Near's opinion, still, or that he is following L's requests not because they are the logical thing but out of some misplaced sense of duty. Mello, though twenty now, is still sometimes a child. If he complains that L treats him patronizingly, then that is why.

"I don't want to rush into this, L. I don't want _you _to rush into this. You owe it to us to explain what the hell you're thinking, taking this case. Especially since you've always _preached _positivist theory every second word. What happens happens, it only matters that it is in due process of law." He is not quite imitating L, but he is certainly feeding him his own words back.

"Adam Sutler is a war criminal." L is surprised to hear the steel in his own voice. He didn't really mean for it to be there, didn't mean for Mello and Matt to both flinch. Near, at least, is still and silent, but Near usually is. "We would be employed under the authority of the Hague, Mello, who are an authority that I trust. And more than that." Mello is already nodding, but he continues, "I do not hesitate to admit that personally, I want to do this. If we succeed in gathering enough evidence of the mass murders, well, I think that this is justice. What do you think?"

"If we get killed," Mello replies, "you are not fucking blaming yourself. Promise me that and Matt and me are both in."

And this is why he likes Mello. For knowing him better than he knows himself sometimes, and for being blunt and caring in his own awkward, all-elbows sort of way. He smiles at him, and of course he doesn't promise, because they all know it would be empty.

Of course L would blame himself. Maybe, when he was twenty five, and before Yagami Light was dragged off, bleeding and screaming, he might have rationalized it. That was when he had Watari with him constantly. Maybe, back before Wammy's House was evacuated, and the children smuggled across the border and then across the world, all the way to L's frivolous investigation building, monument to the Kira case, before losing their doctor, and Roger along the way, and four children to soldier's fire.

There is nothing like witnessing death to make you realize what a dark thing it really is. It only takes once to drive home that a friend is never a statistic or a casualty, they are always a friend. So, he'll just have to do this without getting any of them killed. But he isn't going to make that promise.

"There are more serious questions being asked as to the nature of the first viral outbreak in the old United Kingdom. Rumours are circling in international circles that this might have been a scare tactic initially employed by someone very close to the political party. On this matter, our instructions are to gather as much information as we can."

He curls his toes, feeling the soft fabric of the sofa cushion underneath his feet. Threadbare and tattered though it might be in places, he hasn't had the heart to get rid of this chair. Watari knew him, exactly what he wanted and needed before he himself did, and he has tried a few and never found one as comfortable as it.

"Although it is not top priority, genuine evidence of the link will prove to be instrumental in breaking the ties of loyalty the chancellor has established with his people." The implication being, of course, that if they find nothing, the political minds in charge of the 're-stabilization' of England will invent something. This is not something for L to judge. He doesn't play politics, he digs up the truth. They can do with it what they want.

Matt sighs, and nods anyways, and so does Near, and Mello will too. Even if he's remaining stubbornly silent right now, watching L. L judiciously ignores him and adds another sugar cube to his tea.

"We leave the day after tomorrow. Meet here at nine am, and discreetly, please. Bring only what you can carry easily, that you would need for a long journey. We will be smuggled independently into the country, so as not to attract notice. It is likely that you will not see me for some time. My ethnicity will make things more complicated." Still stirring the sugar into his tea, he climbs to his feet. They rise, because they know that this is their cue, and he shows them to his door.

"Matt, please bring any equipment you think you will need to gain access to heavily encrypted files. In short, the best you have that is still portable. We will divide it among the three of us, to take what we can. I am very happy you agreed to help." He allows a smile. "I think you will be instrumental in finding us what we need to know."

Matt reaches into his pocket for another cigarette, with an awkward, bashful sort of shrug. The pads of Mello's fingers make small patterns on the skin just above his collar, and L wonders, not for the first time, if the two don't communicate like this somehow. If this is morse code or letters, Braille, or some language they have invented between them.

Near hangs back, which is unusual, but it is not unusual for Near to be the one to break the little rituals the three of them have established, for when they work together.

Despite L's unconcerned slouch, he is short enough that he has to go up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to L's cheek. This is an unusually affectionate gesture, for any of them, and especially for Near. Except between Matt and Mello, but of course that's a different scenario entirely.

"Happy birthday, L."

L is annoyed that he knows, it's confidential, and charmed that he remembers, and settles for smiling at him as he hurries out the door, pulling his coat on, and his gloves out of his pockets.

Once they are safely out the door, he turns back to his work. But, because it is his birthday, he decides that maybe just this once he will make a different kind cake, and read while he cooks. He is very much in the mood for something chocolate.


	2. radiant cool eyes

who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes

hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy

among the scholars of war

_He puts __exquisite detail __into the explosives__, twisting a wire here __and there, __and placing the chemicals at the base of the support pillars, so that there will be nothing l__eft standing when he is through._

_The fireworks are the finishing touch, around the feet of Madam Justice, who stands proud, as though she were not some ruined woman. She was his first true love, you might say. In his mind, he can almost see a blush painting her stony cheeks. She is white, he thinks, with fear, for he has found out what she really is._

_V smiles at her with his mask, but not with his mouth, and sweeps a bow before leaving the roof._

_He has a new mistress now, and her name is Anarchy._

Chapter Two

November 3rd

The White Cliffs of Dover

England

The tops of the cliffs are lined with barbed wire, and Near can see sniper towers from between the shoulders of the other people who are crammed onto this boat with him. If anyone was foolish enough to try to approach the island by unauthorized boat, they would be shot before they could touch ground. He hopes L knows better than to have one of the others try to make it in that way. Even in the dim morning light, the people above them watching, if they have to right equipment, can probably see the expression on his face.

It's only the knowledge that Matt is somewhere on this boat with him that keeps him from panicking. Near never really travels alone, and L decided, only after seeing his mildly panicked expression, that it might be alright for two of them to cross on the same boat, provided they did not speak to each other.

At customs, Near is searched, and searched again, and grilled on his story, and asked all manner of questions. L gave him the answers to all of them: Near's name is Nathan Fairlie, his parents were Londoners who were vacationing when the trouble started, and didn't want to even risk exposing him to the virus, since he suffered leukemia as a child and was easily prone to infections. His father was killed in one of the bombings in the Ukraine when he was five, and his mother and he lived in France. Until recently, that is, she died in an automobile accent. Now he wants to return to his glorious heritage and all that, because England is where he belongs.

The only thing that's surprising is how easily the guards buy it. Matt will be coming out now, with an equally sob-patriotic story, calculated just right to be sad enough to get them in, bitter enough to seem realistic, and backed up with just enough evidence that no one asks question. When he finds Matt, he's in line at a nearby chip shop, buying breakfast for two, like he said he would be. He's humming 'oranges and lemons' under his breath, and Near has to not laugh, because big brother might really be watching.

They eat as quickly as they can, without being suspicious, and then set out. They have a long way to go, after all, and if they want to be there before nightfall and curfew, then there's no time to waste.

If either of them had any doubts as to whether or not they were doing the right thing, they do not now. The primary mode of transportation these days, from the countryside and in, is a skytrain. Matt looks out the windows and snaps pictures of buildings that are abandoned and the sloughed around barbed wire, with the camera he has hidden in his shirt collar. Everywhere, there are fences, keeping people in and keeping people out. Warning signs for chemical leaks, radiation, possible biohazards, and forbidden areas all litter the ground.

It changes like night and day, once they get into London. Near figures this is where the rich people must live, because the soldier presence also increases dramatically from one mile to the next. He can see police officers in plainclothes, pretending like they're civilians on nearly every block. 'Fingermen,' is what L's reports called them, and Near knows he has to be very careful of them.

By the time they're off the skytrain, it's mid afternoon and the crowds of people that had been flocking the trendy little restaurants have dispersed back into their offices, lunch over with. They walk, and then cab through the streets, and watch as they begin to fill up again with people, in smart shoes and three piece suits.

There are posters nearly every block, each of them preaching something that Near doesn't really want to read right now. He has to wonder, faintly, if someone in the new administration has read 1984. It's not as though such a revolutionary book is actually available to the average English citizen, but they have to be at least _partially _aware of the irony of all the similarities, don't they? Perhaps it was someone's idea of a joke. Albeit, a morbid one.

He already hates this new country, and he grew up here. This is nothing like what everything was back at the orphanage. These are the same people, tea time is at the same time in the afternoon, you still drink it with lemon instead of cream and sugar (Near thinks L will probably _die_) but things are so very, not the same.

For one thing, the minute the sun begins to set, everyone starts rushing, and vanishing. You do not go out after dark, Matt and Near learn in this baptism by fire, and suddenly every man on every street corner seems ominous, and they are walking so fast that they're nearly running. It's just three blocks now, to the apartment where they're going to stay holed up.

"I'd wave for a taxi," Matt murmurs to him, low and out of breath from the pace they've been setting for what feels like an hour, now, "but somehow I think we might be out of luck." The streets are deserted from cars for as far as the eye can see. "Which is actually really funny, because I used to go clubbing about eight blocks from here, and you would never find a livelier place, not as far as the eye could see."

Near knew this used to be an urban center, but thinking of it that way, with people like Mello and Matt dancing and drinking and smoking their drugs here makes it seem even sadder. That this all used to be alive like those two were, and now it's nothing but a skeleton of a city. Polished, certainly, to a gleaming bone-white, and essentially crime free in a way Kira didn't even manage, but lying dead in it's casket rather than sleeping. Near bets Matt wishes it were Mello he was running with, because they could look at each other in their secret language and be alright.

"When this is over, hey," Matt says, ignoring the fact that Near hasn't replied to anything he's said for a good half hour, "can I convince you to come to a club with me?" Near practically trips over a curb, losing track of his feet in his surprise. Matt grabs him by the backpack and drags him upright, and they're a block and a half away now. Near starts looking at street numbers, and is busily counting them down as the two of them walk, so he has something to do other than strain to listen. He thinks he can hear footsteps somewhere, that aren't just the echo of their own. There's no way to know without looking, and there's nothing more suspicious than staring over your shoulder in a dark street. Keep moving, he knows, and do not look, and he will make it out of this. He answers Matt, in a whisper, "maybe a bar, but nowhere if I have to dance," and is surprisingly gratified by the short laugh he gets in return. Also, he panics a little at the way it reverberates in the hollow street.

He can see the door. He can definitely hear someone coming up behind them. He glances over his shoulder, gasps, and Matt bolts like a jackrabbit. He has his hand around Near's arm, so Near is dragged physically up the steps to their door. Matt, bless him, already had the keys out, in his pocket, so they can stumble through the threshold in a matter of seconds, and slam the door shut on whoever might have been behind them.

If indeed it was more than a shadow. Near is forced to admit he can't quite be sure. Fear makes the mind play tricks on a person, he is not invulnerable to it. Whether there was anyone there or not, there is no noise now except the pounding of his heart. Matt, who's holding his wrist tight, can obviously feel it too. The older man lets out a shaky sigh, and closes the latch, before sagging against the wall.

"Close call?"

They both jump about a foot, unintentionally answering Mello's question with crystal clarity as he comes down the stairs. He's obviously been here, their new home, for a while. He's wearing his usual clothes, and he'd never have been stupid enough to try to sneak across the gap between this place and the rest of the world in something as obvious as that. Near can tell, by the way Matt's looking at him, that he thinks his cockiness is reassuring. Like being almost arrested eight hours in to the venture that was going to take months, possibly _years, _was a minor inconvenience, not an unpardonable sign of incompetence on Matt and Near's part.

"We should have stopped somewhere," Matt says, knowing that Near's thinking it, and probably that Mello is too, given the way he grabs Matt's bag and swings it over his shoulder. Mello only carries people's bags when he feels like he needs to do something to help them, which usually means he was worried. "Or moved faster. But God, I hate it out there."

"Yeah," whispers Mello, and drags Matt in by his jacket to give him a kiss. They stagger back against the wall, neither one of them able to keep their balance properly, with their feet twined around bags and shoes, and backpacks throwing them all a-kilter. Near suddenly feels like he's intruding, so ventures up the stairs to see if L is there and if he's set everything up or not.

L, as it turns out, is present, but most everything else is scattered around him in a ring. He is sitting, curled up in his customary position on their one chair, sipping tea. An electronic coffee pot is burbling on the floor, where it's plugged into the socket. It has a cardboard box of sugar cubes on top of it, lots of which already seem to have been stolen. Near looks at the clutter around, and at the detective, who seems to be in something like a trance, and decides if any cleaning is going to be done tonight it'll probably be by him. Especially from the sound of the door to Mello's and Matt's bedroom (he assumes) slamming. If it wasn't their bedroom, it will be now, after what they're probably about to do.

The furnishings are sparse, but they have what is necessary. Walking into the closet sized kitchen, Near finds their fridge. It's empty, except for Mello's chocolate. Chocolate is too sweet for Near. He makes up his mind to make Matt and Mello go out with a grocery list tomorrow, if only to keep L from going into sugar withdrawal. He fiddles with the toy in his pocket, and goes to find himself paper and a pen, somewhere in the detritus scattered around L.

The detective starts violently when Near appears in front of him, as though he hadn't seen him come in. Near would not have put this past him, not at all.

"Are Mello and Matt having intercourse?" L asks, sounding incredibly startled, and Near pauses for a moment, to listen to the silence from their room. It's not that they're making any noise, it's that Mello isn't yelling. Or even talking, or anything; you can tell, because he has a voice that is usually raised in some sort of emotional response, and that _always _carries. Near smiles.

"Odds indicate, yes." He bends for a pad of paper, and picks up a pencil too, and makes his way over to the old looking sofa. It's rather alarming, to sit and then continue sinking, until he worries he might just be swallowed up whole, and L, who is chewing on his thumb and looking at nothing, will have to waste valuable time investigating how Near disappeared out of a locked house with all the windows bolted shut. However, he eventually manages to catch hold of the arm rest and haul himself back upwards towards daylight, and to something approaching a sitting position.

"Be careful," warns L, quiet and belated, and Near wonders if they brought a dartboard with them or if there's anywhere he could get one, because he hasn't gotten any better over the years, but he _really _wants to be able to throw something sharp and pointy right now.

That's the trouble with being eighteen, playing with toys, and generally the most mature person in the room.


	3. purgatoried their torsos

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in

Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their

torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares

_As he stands on the roof with the girl, Evey, rescued from the street beneath, V can't help but smile behind the mask he's wearing and survey his artwork. For it is art._

_The sky is full of smoke and light, the air is full of sound, and the street is empty of police officers and fingermen. They aren't as quick to respond as they like to pretend, are they? He can see people in windows, and in doorways, looking out and trying to see through the veil that's been pulled over their eyes. He imagines he can hear the sound of the knots Sutler has tied beginning to fray._

_One man is standing in the middle of the street. His hair is a mess, his posture is hunched, he's tapping a foot along with the music, and V can tell that he isn't afraid, and while it doesn't entirely make sense, it fills him with a burning sort of hope. There are still people in this country who do not flinch and cower._

_His music is not falling on deaf ears._

**Chapter Three**

**November 5th**

**Jordan Towers**

**England**

"I could have totally done it, you know," Mello mutters to Matt, mutinously, adjusting the tie his boyfriend forced him into, because 'the raving pimp look is out these days, Mello,' as the hacker so kindly put it, and they're trying to be subtle about getting into the newscast center.

Mello doesn't really fit in at all, and Matt is only a little better off. They'd be more careful if they were trying to accomplish anything serious, or if their ID's were made by anyone other than L, or if there was any chance that something could go wrong. But really, it's a standard setup; Mello gets them in, with L's help, Matt does his funky computer shit while Mello waits at the door and makes sure no one bugs him, they learn everything they can and they get out.

It's actually made easier, not more complicated, by the terrorist bombings the night before. If it were a parliamentary building this might not be the case, but because it was an 'emergency demolition' so what could they possibly have to protect themselves again? There's a slew of people around that normally wouldn't be; experts are here to testify, and working crews to take responsibility for the fireworks and every other sprinkle and garnish and cherry that the government could find to put on top of the cowgirl.

"I don't know why you're laughing," Matt says, as he rearranges wires to feed into his little devices, and coaxes images up onto the computer screen with tentative keystrokes, "but if you're planning anything, Mello, for fuck's sake, don't."

"I'm not," complains Mello, "and for once that's true. I'm just cackling because we are mad, talented evil geniuses."

"You're a fucking freak," Matt complains, doing something with a portable hard drive hat Mello doesn't recognize, "and I can't smoke in here because it'd set the fire alarm off, and I'll apologize later but for the love of God, this is finicky and I can't smoke." His voice is level and steady and not strained at all, because Matt scarcely ever sounds unnerved, but Mello knows him well enough to know it's time to go check the hallway for, um, anything. So long as he's not in Matt's hair for the next thirteen and a half seconds. It's not like he's short of things to think about.

For one thing, there's L's reaction to the destruction of the Old Bailey. Despite his initial protestations that he was perfectly alright, (having returned to the apartment covered in a great deal of soot,) it didn't take a genius to tell that the detective was shaken. For one thing, he might have nearly been caught in the explosion. None of them asked him how close he came.

For another, when L devoted his entire life to the pursuit of justice, without regard to political pressure or tensions, and having for the first time _slightly _bent this rule, which had previously been held inviolate? Well, Mello doubted very much that L was a superstitious man, but given the light hearted comments about pathetic fallacy, humour betrayed by a slightly shocky look to the man's expressive eyes, Mello doubted that he was entirely immune, in this instance.

Who wouldn't be? And no matter how much he liked to pretend, the detective was only human. Perhaps one of the very best of them all, but still, only that. And how was Mello to know that Near would be repeating the same phrase to _him, _in just under an hour?

Near had to stitch one of the cuts on the bottom of L's feet, where he'd stepped on a bit of glass from a broken window, when fleeing the scene in his customary, barefoot hurry. L watched him do it, not complaining, but chewing on his thumb a little bit nervously. Matt sat in the computer chair, pulling up footage from the security cameras he already had access to, of the man standing on the roof with the girl, conducting his invisible orchestra. Mello paced and closed his eyes, and imagined he could feel the heat of the flames on his face, only to open them to the disappointment of a water incandescent bulb.

That's why he leapt on the idea of going to the BTN in the midst of all the chaos, because his head was just screaming 'now now now' and he wanted to do something, anything. Which led to Matt, doing his wacky computer shit, and Mello at the other end of the hall, and the following fiasco.

Here's how it happened:

Mello's train of thought was abruptly interrupted as he reached the end of the hallway. He had peered around the corner just in time to hear a piercing alarm split the air. Naturally assuming that Matt had accidentally tripped a wire, he spun around to make his way back to the room.

Only to have two doorways between him and it open, and a flood of people pour into the hallway, all making their way towards _him. _There is very little that is more conspicuous than making your way the wrong way through a crowd of people who are being told to evacuate a building, and since the whole thing was naturally going to be captured on surveillance cameras, there was very little to do but stand by the corner and hope for a glimpse of red hair coming out of the room.

Mello saw Matt come out. He knows he did. Matt even gave him a perplexed little quirk of a smile, as if to say 'fucked if I know what happened,' and started towards him. Mello turned and started making his way slowly down the hall, confident that Matt knew to catch up with him slowly and naturally, and if he couldn't manage it, that they'd meet on the street outside, and get the fuck out of there.

Twenty minutes later, Mello was still standing in the street, by himself and panicking. Any second now, Matt, any second now.

Nineteen minutes earlier, back inside, Matt _was _following Mello out. He had his equipment with him, he had the information slipped into his boot. He was even fairly sure that it hadn't been him that had tripped whatever alarm was set off. For one thing, he'd probably have noticed it, and for another, the data had continued downloading even after the klaxon sounded. That didn't strike him as an 'oh no, we are being hacked' sort of reaction.

The policemen convinced him of it even further. Not only did one not usually get armed officers running to the rescue for information leaks in news towers, (you generally got the pudgy, security officer type, like the piece of work at the front desk) but they arrived _way _too fast, and they weren't even looking for _him. _ Obviously, he wasn't sure of this at first, but the woman racing past him through the hallway with the man chasing her was a pretty big hint. Best of luck to her, and all, but this was causing him a fair amount of relief.

His first mistake was stopping. Even with the strange message being broadcast on the override, he should have kept going, in retrospect. Instead, he stood in the hallway, watching the screen suspended in the corner with a combination of admiration and disdain; V, congratulations on exploiting it, government, never make anything that can be used against you. Basic, basic rule of technological thumb.

His second mistake was listening. Not that V's words stirred some great chord of passion in his heart; he wasn't in this with L's conviction, or Mello's passion, or Near's single-mindedness. He was just sort of here, for the ride and the game and the being constantly around and having sex with Mello and the adrenaline and the good, clean fun of the hack. But he really shouldn't have stopped to listen, because even if he's the calm one, the ambivalent one, the one who just wants a pack of smokes and a game or two, this V character is a hell of a public speaker.

Matt chews absently on his thumbnail while he listens, a habit he picked up from L. He thinks, knows, really, that this development is probably going to make what they're doing a whole lot trickier, and also a whole lot more interesting. Neither of these are particularly bad things.

So, cockiness is his third mistake. He isn't paying attention to where he's going, either, and so he crashes head on into a woman coming his direction. She takes off around the corner and he heads the opposite way. This isn't the last of Evey Hammond's involvement in the story, but for now, it's time for her to depart from the course she could have taken.

Back to Matt. He isn't paying attention to where he's going, and isn't looking around the corners before he takes them, which is a stupid fucking rookie mistake, (his fourth) and then there he is. In the hallway, with a caped terrorist in a mask, and a police officer pointing a gun at him.

Matt thinks absently that the stupid terrorist is laughing at him, and then he realizes that right, that's just the Guy Fawkes mask, and this means that the man is probably manic depressive with delusions of grandeur and that Matt is crazy for even doing this. But what the hell, he's never liked police officers anyways. If L asks he'll just say it's a bi-product of time spent in the foster care system and he's staying true to his roots, or something. L isn't likely to ask, and neither is Near, but Mello is probably going to want to know what the fuck he was thinking.

Truthfully, he was thinking of rash, irrepressible Mello, who always hit first and asked questions later and who he was clearly going to spend the rest of his natural life with, even if it killed him. Because if Mello was here and it was his new favourite terrorist who had a gun pointed at him, there wouldn't have been _any _hesitation. This seemed like a bit of a double standard, from Matt's point of view, so he decided it was kind of his turn to just get into a little bit of trouble.

'Little.' Right.

He grabs the policeman by the shoulder with his left hand, and turns him enough to get him off balance and put him at what's a very, very convenient angle to cold cock him one to the jaw. Matt has been told he can deliver a hell of a punch. Most often by Mello, who tends to get punched an awful lot, so would probably know, the amount of bar fights he starts. It certainly sends this man staggering backwards, head thrown back. He glances up to see what V's doing, if the man is smart he'll be running, but he's just standing there, with the fake grin painted on, watching events like some damnable Julius Caesar.

He's very much prepared to predict that V didn't see this one coming, for all that he must have prepared and planned. The emergency broadcast system wasn't something you could come at unprepared, the message had to be pre-recorded. And that's not even mentioning the effort it would take to destroy the Old Bailey, and to get in _here _without the benefit of a nice fake identity and a press pass, like Matt and Mello just did. Mello's probably outside waiting for him.

Matt is still thinking of Mello when the gun goes off. Mostly, he's just aware of the sense of impact. The police officer has obviously recovered at least some, while Matt stood staring at V. Not enough to aim properly, or he's just really bad at it, one of the two. His shoulder rolls back, and there's a moment of nothing, and then _searing _pain radiating outwards in vicious, lava-stabs.

"Well fuck me," says Matt, as V moves in a swirl of black cloth. The policeman is unconscious on the floor in seconds. Maybe it's shorter, or longer, Matt's sense of time is going funny. He's suddenly aware that he's on the ground, and that there's blood running between his fingers. That must be why the time is an issue. It's blood loss, or shock, or whatever it is you get first when someone shoots you. This sure as hell isn't the first time Matt's been shot, but it never gets any more pleasant, does it? At least it's his shoulder, it's probably missed most vital stuff.

His last impressions are of a laughing face, swimming into his vision. He manages to mumble, "What the fuck do you think _you're _laughing at?" and he doesn't usually let himself get this upset over the little things, but the whole bullet in the shoulder is kind of hurting, and the bastard is laughing at him. That's all he has, before he loses consciousness entirely, unaware of the fingers

Later, two police officers review the tapes of V bending over the fallen man in the hallway, and quickly putting pressure on his shoulder, doing some very rudimentary work at making sure he doesn't bleed out, and then eventually picking him up. It looked, for a moment, like he might be left behind, but then the two disappear out of sight, the young man's head rolling back at what looks like a rather uncomfortable angle.

Mello stands outside the BTN, frozen, holding on to a lamp post with white knuckles, watching the building's exits with blind panic, until Near finally comes and leads him away.

AN: copying might be the most sincere form of flattery, but I have been a wicked author and forgetting to source my poetry. All the verses at the beginnings are from the poem Howl, by the incomparable Allen Ginsberg. Google it, read it, you'll thank me for it.

There are also Orwellian allusions thrown in here and there, but it's a V FOR VENDETTA fanfic, so that's kind of to be expected, isn't it? I mean sheesh, blatancy.

Also!!!! HUGE COOKIE for whoever can tell me Matt's eyecolour behind his goggles, or the nationality of the name 'Jeevas.'


	4. who chained themselves

who chained themselves to subways for the endless

ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine

until the noise of wheels and children brought

them down shuddering mouth-wracked and

battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance

in the drear light of Zoo,

_She could hear them, in the streets, in the halls of her building, coming up towards her apartment. And she knew this was going to be it, in a matter of seconds she was going to be one more person who disappeared under one of those black bags. Like everyone else she knew._

_The phone rang._

_She almost didn't answer it._

_But it rang, and rang, and rang._

_"Hello, this isn't a good time right now, sorry, I'm about to be arrested."_

_"Miss Hammond, it's vitally important that you do exactly as I say. Now, go to the window and look out. You will see a man __in black, sitting on the curb__ across the street from you..."_

**Chapter Four**

**November 7****th**

**The Shadow Gallery**

**London**

Waking up from a serious amount of drugs is an unpleasant experience, one that Matt is unfortunately versed enough with to be able to recognize the moment the ceiling even begins to blur into focus. It's high and vaulted, and his first thought is that a colony of bats would have a field day in here.

Rough hands lift a glass of water to his lips when he groans and gasps, and he can taste something that's not water in it, but before he can complain the world swims out of focus again and he falls into a restless, miserable sleep. His shoulder hurts and Mello is screaming at him somewhere in the distance, but he can't find him.

The dull ache of the wound wakes him again, and although his internal clock is even more fucked up than he is right now, he knows that he must have been asleep for a very long time. For one thing, his head is clear. Pounding, but clear in a way it wouldn't be if any of the sedative or painkiller or horse tranquilizer or whatever the hell that was, was still in his system.

The first thing he notices, not because it's important but because it's human nature, is that he's shirtless. Given that Matt likes as many layers of cloth as possible, this is more than a little unsettling. But it's not shirtless in the 'hello molestation' way, but rather in the 'neatly bandaged and stitched up shoulder' way, probably with a bullet no longer embedded in his flesh, which is just plain handy. The second thing he notices is that his shoulder isn't hurt that badly at all, so it must have been pretty clean.

Then, in some tenuous order of 'all at once' and 'far too slowly given that he's technically a genius' he works out that the stone ceiling is the same as before, that the little bug Near stitched into the inside of his waistband is still pressed against his side, though it's effectiveness will be compromise given how deep they must be underground, and that given the colour of the stone he knows exactly where they are.

And yes, they are underground, and yes, it's deep, and for some reason he thinks he can hear Nat King Cole playing in the background. He sits up, and experiences a wave of disorientation. He's been asleep for nearly two days; he's never slept that long in his life, and no longer than five hours in a row in the past decade, probably, thanks to Wammy's House. It's not a sensation he particularly enjoys.

Now, Matt knows that any sane or normal person would stay lying down until someone came and brought them water and was some kind of help, but Matt has never been called sane and normal, except in reference to Mello as 'slightly more so than,' so he gets up and makes his way to the nearest door. Lucky him, it's a bathroom.

A moment or two later, with water splashed on his face and dried off, he makes his way out and starts searching for the door that'll lead him to the source of the music. He has a feeling that that's where he'll find his host. He makes no move to pick up a sheet, or look for a shirt or anything else to cover himself. He won't act like it makes a difference. He won't look for shoes either, the advantage of padding silent and barefoot is too much to give up.

V is standing over a nice old fashioned jukebox when Matt finally finds him, and maybe his shoulder was worse than he thought, because he's out of breath and has to lean against the door frame with his good shoulder and breathe for a moment before addressing him.

"Morning. Or hey, evening, or midday, or whatever."

It's impossible to tell if the man behind the mask is startled, but Matt pretends to himself that the abrupt movement might indicate that. Who knows? It might. It'd sure make him feel better, and with the queasiness in his stomach right now, he could use a pick me up. Or twenty.

"You are awake," says the man with an accent that can only be described as cultured. Matt remembered how he sounded on the television, but it's even more noticeable when they're face to plastic face.

"Yeah. Thanks for, you know, averting blood loss, arrest and major torture." V inclines his head, and Matt makes himself not look at the smiling mouth and watch, instead, the slant of his shoulders, what he's doing with his hands. It's impossible to read a masked man's face, but they tend to forget to disguise their body language, so the little things they don't want you to know come through loud and clear. Like now, for instance. All Matt can really think is a tired 'uh oh,' even as V starts talking again.

"And many thanks to you, for though you are a stranger I have no doubt that had it been but for you, my little endeavour at freeing our country from its current yoke would have been derailed in its very beginning stages. Forgive me, I say 'our country,' but reason suggests that you have been raised elsewhere."

Matt smirks. If V expected him to be impressed with that much, he's sorely mistaken.

"What with the gun and the hacking equipment? Not to mention consistent failure to behave in a sheep-like manner?" The world spins, and whatever V is hiding, they will have to argue about it later, because Matt can feel his knees giving out. He can't even complain when V escorts him back to bed and makes sure he actually climbs in this time. So, back to sleep it is for him. He can practically hear Mello teasing him.

The next time he wakes up looking at the ceiling, it's practically familiar and makes for a good deal of irritation. He decides to lie still and breathe for a long moment, to be sure he isn't going to nose dive this time around. That's only excusable behaviour once, and then it becomes a habit, and then that means it's a weakness, which isn't something he can afford to have right now.

Promptly after making this decision, he climbs to his feet and looks for his shoes, because as pleasant as this has been, he kind of wants to get out of here and he has a sneaking suspicion that V might not actually be inclined to let him. Which is completely unfair, since Matt did technically take a bullet for him, but he supposes that's gratitude for you. He feels right now that the best course of action is to simply avoid the argument by looking for the stairs, doors, or lift out of here on his own.

V finds him, an hour later, on his knees, picking a lock, and doesn't know whether to be amused or irritated. He settles on stern and parental, and approaches to take the needle firmly out of the visitor's hands. Needless to say, he isn't expecting the powerful kick Matt delivers to his face, but it doesn't surprise him or hurt him enough that he can't grab the man by his injured shoulder and pin him with it against the wall. It is both a reminder that Matt is hurt, and in no condition to be fighting, and a reaffirmation of V's ruthlessness.

Matt yells in pain, and lets himself be dragged to a couch, and falls on to it almost gratefully. Only with a profound amount of irritation, too, because this is already getting old.

"If you'd unlock it," Matt mutters mutinously, succumbing to the desire to hug a pillow to his chest because his arm is killing him, "then I wouldn't have to break out. I'm going to make it, so you'd save yourself a lot of worry in the future, and probably a broken down door or two."

There's a soft huff of laughter from the masked man. This time he really _is _laughing at him, but Matt is deadly serious.

"Come on. What harm could I possible do leaving? It's not like I can actually go to the police and turned you in. I'm wanted for assaulting a police officer, and not technically legally in the country." V's shaking his head, and Matt knows why, but hell, it was worth a try. He forces himself inch by inch to relax, because having his back tense will make his arm worse, and appearing calm will make the argument easier.

"It is not what you would divulge willingly that worries me. Now, we have not made each other's acquaintances properly..."

Matt takes a slow breath, and wishes he had a cigarette.

"I know who you are. Call me Matt. We're less than twelve blocks away from the apartment I'm living in, and I fucking want a cigarette but know pretty much exactly how the ventilation must work so I know that's impossible."

V is silent as his captive speaks. He is not precisely awestruck, but he is most certainly impressed with the man. Or perhaps boy, he couldn't be much older than twenty.

"I'm nineteen, I'm a nicotine addict, and most of the time I'm a very pleasant person," Matt tells him, casually, "usually easy going. Ask anyone. The exception to this rule is when I'm a prisoner in an underground lair, hurt and without cigarettes. This cloak and dagger shit is not my style. You know I have reasons not to be caught by the government. Trust that I'm _good _enough not to let it happen."

There is a long moment where Matt thinks he might just stand a chance. V settles down on a nearby chair, and Matt can see the moment where he stops considering it and decides it's too much of a risk. Matt's too much of a risk. _Fuck._

"First of all, while you are not working with the BTN, I have nothing to assure me that you are not merely from a higher branch, who felt it convenient to be covert." Matt knows that this is horseshit. "But mostly, I simply must say that I have no reason to believe that you will go to any length to keep my secrets. Or that whatever organization you are a part of would even _want _to."

Matt opens his mouth to argue, but V cuts him off.

"You are probably a good man, Matt, but this is a fight you must have a reason to win before you can enter."

"A," Matt snaps, "that's faulty logic. I am male, ergo I cannot be a feminist. B, my people are already in the fight, whether we have your blessings to be so or not, commodore, and c, I'll be sure to tell my _boyfriend _you said so. Asshole."

V thinks the last part is altogether too convenient, so he ignores it. He ignores all of what Matt's just said, actually, filing it away for further examination and instead rising to his feet.

"You should not have betrayed to me that you knew where we were, you know," he bends to take Matt by both arms, and pull him to his feet. Struggling will just hurt his shoulder worse, so Matt comes quietly, "Cloak and dagger as it may be, I cannot possibly let you go now. You should lie down, and have another painkiller."

"Provided it's not poisoned?" asks Matt, darkly, "Do they still make nicotine gum in this shithole country?" V just laughs, and feeds him his medication and lies him down to sleep. It might have gone alright for Matt, if he had stopped talking, or if V had just left the room right away, or any number of things. But as it was;

"L will find me, you know. L can find _anyone. _Bet you three joints I'm out of here by the end of the week." His voice is drowsy and slurred, with drugs and pain, but the words ignite a bright light behind V's eyes, even though he can't remember why. He knows that L is something _important._

The fifth day of Matt's captivity finds V reflecting that he might have to increase the dosage of sedatives he's been slipping his guest. So far he has found the man breaking into his cabinets stealing carving knives and utensils appropriate for lock-picking, _nearly _out the front door, and wandering the back halls of the wing of artificial cells that V has constructed. V briefly considers locking Matt in one, but since the man will have to stay here for the next year, he thinks it would probably be better to earn his good faith.

That, and he wouldn't put it past him to Houdini his way out of a prison cell. V's other locks have only barely stopped him as it is. He's even somehow gotten out of and completely destroyed the pair of handcuffs V tried on him once. If he broke out of there, then V would certainly be in trouble. Not that he wasn't now.

Matt stands beside the jukebox, a small (antique, priceless) bronze statue, in hand, and a serious expression on his naturally deceptively passive face. "I'm serious. You now have a hostage situation on your hands, V."

V wants to roll his eyes, but knows it will be a wasted gesture. He's a little more inclined to listen when Matt seems to pick up on this, and turning, sends his favourite suit of armour falling to the ground with a powerful kick. It lands with an enormous crash, and Matt returns to his stance, ready to bludgeon his source of music to an early death.

"I am not fucking waiting around here at your leisure. Things to do, people to fuck, regimes to topple."

"Matt," says V, nearly gently, "this is going to get you nowhere. I will not sacrifice my ideals in exchange for physical luxuries. An intelligent man would be able to see as much instantly."

"An intelligent man would have fucking checked me for bugs, Sherlock," answers Matt, "but then, I'm good enough that you wouldn't have found it. Still won't, since it's not on me any more. It's hidden in here, which means it's very, very likely that the metaphorical troops will soon descend."

V feels his heart skip a beat. However, given the amount of time it's been, this is likely an empty threat. Still, he's prepared to admit he might have underestimated Matt initially.

"After all this time?"

Matt snarls, and grabs a tapestry behind him, ripping it hard off the wall. V can't help but flinch slightly. That was old and precious, and his patience is fast running out. He knows that he is not going to tolerate Matt destroying anything else.

"Listen to me." Matt points at him with the statue. "You have no right to do this. This is your country, and you can fight for it, I appreciate that. Hell, I'm grateful, I grew up here, once upon a time. I know better than most people how badly it's gone, but you're nothing more than some cheap Kira knockoff if you're going to kill anyone who gets in your way."

Ah, V thinks, so he noticed. The pommel of the knife sits heavy in his palm. It would be oh so easy to hurl it and end the situation right now. He could throw it and very easily have it land in one of Matt's bright, intelligent eyes. Or his throat, using the flickering pulse point as a bulls eye. He watches Matt swallow, nervous behind his own, different kind of mask.

"I no more want to kill you than you want to die," he tells him, sliding the knife into open view even as his other hand goes for the syringe. Matt's eyes stay riveted on the shine of the blade, which is as it should be. V walks forwards, and Matt stands frozen. He looks exquisitely peaceful, for someone who's heart is beating so very, very fast. V wonders who he was, before he became the nuisance of a man systematically destroying V's Shadow Gallery.

"Just let me go," Matt whispers, and doesn't even flinch as the needle slides into the side of his neck and V's arms fold around him. Maybe, V thinks, he did see it coming after all. What a strange person. "I need to fight this too. Just let me..." the statue drops to the ground with a dull thud, and Matt sags like a ragdoll into V's arms. He moans once, and V knows that the hallucinations must already be starting.

Once Matt is in his bed, drugged to the gills, and pale and twisting in the sheets with fright and confusion, V sighs and makes his way to the lift upstairs. He's calculated the dosage precisely. He has six hours, which is all he needs to sort out dear mister Lewis Prothero. That's also six hours before Matt is up again, and wrecking further havoc. V won't let that happen, the needle will go in again in five and a half.


	5. who talked continuously

who talked continuously seventy hours from park to

pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook-

lyn Bridge,

_Evey__ spends most of her days reading, sitting on her hands, and puttering about, making herself useful. Living in an apartment with three young men is proving to be a messy affair, and she's rather alarmed to discover that none of them can cook._

_Or even seem to eat all that much, except L and his sugar and Mello and his chocolate and Near... well, pretty much nothing there. She can understand that they're all worried about their friend, but they're going to keel over and die if they keep this up._

_Mello shrugs at her when she asks him, and tells her to get him a grocery list and he'll pick up whatever she needs._

_Brown sugar, white sugar, flour, salt, baking soda, vanilla, butter, eggs and chocolate chips. L did save her from arrest, after all. And she has nothing at all to do anyways. And who doesn't appreciate homemade cookies?_

**Chapter Five**

**November 13****th**

**The ****Batcave**** (aka, L's new base)**

**London**

The problem with not knowing what to do was that it was frustrating, and that frustration inevitably decreased his ability to reason by great percentages, which meant he didn't know what to do which was frustrating. Add the conspicuous lack of Matt to the equation, and L was nearly a nervous wreck. Well, compared to how he normally was, which meant he held things more cautiously and curled a little tighter, and put nine sugar cubes in his tea instead of six.

Mello was handling it worse, but Mello could be forgiven because while the hole Matt left in L and Near's world was significant, but quiet, Mello was practically lost without him. When L had Matt staying with him, he could expect a smile in the morning, or an extra toothbrush by one of the sinks, and a few bags of Matt's favourite kind of soba in the pantry. Occasionally, he might be given lessons in how to make fruit salad, or deposit a plate of food by L's elbow.

Matt, L was coming to realize, was like Mello's ballast a lot of the time. Without him, he did stupid, foolhardy things and came up with stupid, foolhardy plans. Which L supposed was better than him, since so far he had absolutely nothing. They had reviewed the tapes of the streets surrounding the Towers numerous times for sight of a fleeing figure bearing a body, or dragging someone (because Matt would never get up and walk away, with Mello waiting) and had come to the conclusion that the man must have gone by rooftop, or known exactly where the blind spots in the cameras were. Either was likely, given the footage of the fights.

V moved like a cat. L wouldn't relish challenging _him _to a game of tennis.

And, more seriously, really doubted it would ever come to that. Not with Matt still missing more than a week later.

Surprisingly, it was Evey who came up with the germ of the idea. Unsurprisingly, it was Near who grew it into what it turned into. L could discern hidden meanings and motivations, Mello could annihilate, but Near could manipulate probably better than either of them.

"Why don't you try to find some way to get in touch with V?" She asked, earnestly, "He saved me from the fingermen, he's a very nice sort of person, only a little crazy."

"Given the nature of his vendetta, it is likely he places a high importance on the concept of honour," Near muses, fitting the pieces back into the puzzle he's making on the floor, "and would likely consider himself bound to answer a challenge."

L looks at the computer screen, and idly pulls up a few files of Matt's. Clicks 'run program.' Waits for the signal to connect, while thinking about what he's going to say. And pulls up his signature, the detailed, old fashioned, 'L.' The little bar in the corner of the screen is rising slowly, 79, 87, etcetera, and in just enough time, he has his microphone out in front of him.

"What-" Evey starts to ask, but he holds up a hand in a gesture to be silent, and leans in, speaking with only a little more anger in his voice than he originally planned for. The effect, combined with the distortion, is a little bit austere.

"V. You have something of mine. This is unacceptable. When will you pay me?"

And then 'cut transmission.' Evey's eyes are wide, and Near's eyes are narrowed, and Mello emerges from the kitchen looking rather irritated that they didn't bother to call him in first.

"Have you just recorded that, then?" Evey asks, and L shakes his head, setting the plate of fresh baked cookies down at his elbow. L reaches for one with a half-smile.

"I have just broadcasted it, Miss Hammond." The cookie is instantly devoured, despite its heat, and he licks melted chocolate off his fingers.

"But the meeting spot?" Mello asks, distractedly unwrapping the chocolate, "will he get that? That was pretty vague, you know." He glances at Near, who just shrugs. They can't estimate the intellect of the newest opponent through anything he's done so far. Only his meticulousness and psychopathy. But L doesn't need for V to know what he means.

This whole thing is risky, to say the least, especially pushing in to the newly renovated emergency broadcast system for the second time in a short few days. It betrays to the government that they're there, and that they know what they're doing, but Matt taught him how to make cheesecake when Watari died and L is prepared to be a little risky for him.

"Matt will understand."

"It's Shoreditch," mumbles the half-asleep man on the couch, as V leans forwards and replays L's message again. He glances at Matt in surprise. The medication shouldn't have worn off yet, and from the looks of things, it hadn't, entirely. His eyes are wide and glassy, and he's struggling feebly with the blankets wrapped tightly around him.

"When will you pay me, say the bells of Old Bailey? When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch. He wants to talk to you at Shoreditch."

"But that's far too exposed," V says, gently, watching Matt with a little remorse. He knows that a truly remarkable intellect is being muted right now, and in a way, it makes him feel guilty, "He can't possibly take such a risk."

"He likes me," Matt replies, with a happy smile, entirely carefree and drug induced, "and Mello's probably yelling at him like crazy cause Mello likes me _more. _Mello can twist people's arms and he's better with explosives than you. Because he's a genius. We all are, I guess, but Mello especially. Only a little less especially than Near."

V watches Matt for a moment longer, as he tries to make sense of what he's saying, and then climbs to his feet.

"It would be faster, Matt, if you told me where they lived."

Matt gives him an empty smile that's so very perfect that it makes V realize he can't possibly still be as stoned as he's playing, and that he needs to double check the handcuffs _right now. _He starts forwards as Matt lunges sideways off the couch, and only barely manages to inject him again as his hands scrabble for the ornamental clay plate on the coffee table. Smashed, it might have afforded him some kind of weapon.

With a sigh of mixed annoyance and relief, another crisis staved off, he reaches down and starts searching Matt's person for the tracer he mentioned earlier, the one that won't be working under ground.

"L," says Near, quietly at first, as one of the monitors begins to flash, and emits a soft beeping noise. More urgently, as the dot on the screen moves, he shouts for the detective again. Evey, Mello and L are leaning over his shoulder, looking at the screen in a matter of seconds.

"He's walking around? The sonovabitch is out and walking around?" Mello looks furious, ready to spit nails. But sure enough, there's a dot labelled 'Ma.' Currently walking slowly in the opposite direction a few blocks from where they are now. It takes a left.

"Mello, it is unlikely that that is Matt," L says, firmly and gently, "however, it is good news. It means that codename V is asking to talk."

So, four and a half minutes later, after some scuffling and arguments and a very decisive foot being put down by L, it is the detective himself who walks out the door, cell phone in hand, listening to Near's directions, and Mello swearing in the background.

"Turn to your left, and walk up three streets," says Near, as calmly as though he was playing a game of Simon Says, and Mello yells 'fuck!' in the background and L hears the sound of china smashing. He hopes none of Evey's cookies fell victim, because they were delicious, innocent cookies who did not deserve to have harm come to them. Perhaps he should have brought some for V, but then, the man might interpret that as a sign that L wanted to see him mask-less. And he is very jealous of his cookies, he would frankly rather not share.

A little while longer, and he's standing by someone's garden hedge, watching a shadow move down the street before him. Near's voice says 'thirty feet now,' and L nods and belatedly remembers that Near can't see him, so just clicks the phone shut.

Apparently, the terrorist can see him, because he comes to a standstill twenty feet away. The moon catches his mask strangely, making it look nearly incandescent. L stands, slouching, and watches him openly for a few seconds, before walking towards him.

When they're only a few feet away from each other, L stops again, and quirks a sideways smile. So this would be 'V.'

"Walk with me?" L asks, politely, and without waiting for an answer, turns to head off towards somewhere they can't be seen openly in the streetlights. He hears V's boots on the pavement next to him, and sees him out of his peripheral vision, arms held behind his back, shoulders squared, as though he were taking a pleasant, evening stroll.

The masked man speaks first, breaking the cool silence. "Matt is essentially unharmed, except what was done to him by the police."

"Most regrettable," L agrees, softly, "I saw the footage, of course. I understand your actions up to that point, and will go so far as to thank you. Matt would have been in a great deal of trouble, had you chosen to leave him behind." He reaches a fork in the road, and stops. V turns left, so L follows him. "What I do not understand is why he did not at least contact us after his disappearance."

V does not miss the subtle accusation in L's tone. It is, after all, very well founded, considering it's absolutely true.

"Most regrettable indeed. Tell me, my friend, what is a detective of L's- _your _calibre doing in a place like London? There is no more room for your sort of justice."

L laughs, shortly and not particularly kindly. He gestures in the direction in which the Old Bailey used to stand. "That is not justice." His voice lacks any significant intonation, and V feels a faint prickle of anger.

"That is all that we have." V's voice is low and neutral, too. "Go back to where you came from. Enough people here are disappearing into cells as it is. What you do is good, but in a country where they are as likely to imprison an innocent man as a guilty one, there is no place for someone who searches for the truth."

"And let you keep Matt until the year is out?" L's voice is only slightly louder than it should be, but it's enough to make him take a low breath, and glance over his shoulder. "Unacceptable. And besides, I disagree with you. There are guilty men here who are not facing the consequences of their actions."

"They will," says V, in a tone that brooks no argument, and L thinks 'oh, a vigilante,' and remembers Yagami Light's eyes lighting up with passion as they talked politics. He does not need another vigilante in his life, he never needs a vigilante in his life, ever again.

"I know." The implication is clear; he will make them.

There is a moment of tense, strained, unfriendly silence. V looks at L's eyes, and L looks at his own feet, and chews absently on his thumb.

"The solution is obvious," L says, some time later, and I will not be offended if you suggest it. I am not a foolish person and neither are you, as distasteful as the idea might seem." V sighs, harder than he might usually, making a strange, whistling sound through the mask, and the two settle down to talk logistics.

L thinks idly that Near and Mello probably aren't going to like this much. They might not even let him do it.

The solution is clearly not to tell them.

AN: Oh whatever, I'm allowed to call it the Batcave twice in as many stories . 


	6. whole intellects disgorged

whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days

and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the

Synagogue cast on the pavement,

who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a

trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic

City Hall,

_Evey wanted to go, and called them rude and sexist and exclusive and any number of other things._

_"Do you know how to use a gun?" Mello eventually asked, loading his, "No? Then shut the fuck up. My boyfriend is missing, okay?"_

_Near walks over, and presses his hand to Mello's mouth, a soft gesture with steel behind it, and Evey shuts and walks into the kitchen, furious because Mello is right and she just doesn't understand._

**Chapter Six**

**November 16****th**

**St Leonard's Church, (the bells of Shoreditch)**

**England**

L had apparently told V that they wouldn't be there before 4 am, the morning of the sixteenth, and he insists on waiting until then before walking up the steps of the church. Mello was upset by this, of course, because Mello wanted to be in there, well in advance, ready to shoot V in the fucking head for messing with Matt. L, however, had insisted.

Apparently, they were going to do this 'honourably.' Near thought this was rather an enchanting idea. Perhaps he was a little more appraised of L's occasionally cutthroat techniques than codename V, but L was insisting, so that was the way it would be.

So they climbed the steps of the church, Mello with a gun in his waistband, and Near with an action figure, and L with a hand in his pocket and another in his mouth. L was looking extremely pensive, and Near had to think 'no wonder,' because of all the ways this could go, he knew the most likely option, and it was kind of frightening.

He can't hear or see anyone in the church, and neither can L nor Mello, apparently. Mello goes first, approaching the alter and kneeling, whispering a something that Near misses, except that it has Matt's name in it, no doubt. He'd forgotten that Mello still believed in something.

Once, when they were younger, Near had told him it was irrational and unscientific to believe in something he couldn't see, or hear, nor that he had any physical evidence of. Mello had asked, cheerfully,

"Well, do you believe in gravity?" to which Near had of course replied, "Yes." Mello had shrugged, and informed him that he was irrational believe in something he couldn't see, hear, and that he didn't have physical evidence of.

"But I do have physical evidence," Near said, curiously, "I'm here, aren't I?" Gesturing at the ground, meaning down-here rather than up-there. He was perhaps five years old at the time, possibly younger, and in the very belligerent phase that comes with having just lost your parents. Mello had grinned at him, all teeth and no kindness, and said, "So am I," and crossed himself. Near still wasn't a Catholic, but he hadn't brought it up since, either.

Mello, who is remembering the same incident, but more from the angle of having punched Near in the nose immediately afterwards, approaches him and ruffles his hair, because he knows it annoys him less than he pretends it does.

"There's something to be said for growing up," muses Near, as he makes his action figure dive through the air as he falls to a crouch, content to wait in the shadow of the pew until Matt and V appear. L has taken a seat on the wooden bench, knees curled to his chest, thumb in his mouth, expression slack and disinterested. Mello remains on his feet, pacing, but not more than a few steps away from the two of them.

They wait for what feels like hours to Mello, and minutes to Near, and twenty one minutes and around fifty seconds to L, who always had a very good sense of time, which made cooking a lot easier, before something finally happened.

That is to say, the door opened, and V comes through, hand on Matt's arm, tugging him after. Even looking at him from this far away, Mello can tell he's on something. Something more than his usual comfortable blend of alcohol and cannabis, that is to say. There's mildly buzzed Matt, and then there's the evil doctors have had their way with me Matt, and this is the second one.

Whatever, he's alive, and for that, Mello's more than glad. He starts to rush forwards, but L holds up a hand in an inarguable gesture to _stop, _and only because it's L, does Mello obey. The terrorist and the hacker are making their way down the aisle, and again, _only because it's L _is Mello not shooting that fucker in the face.

"I have left everything you will need to continue the investigation in my absence well in order," L says, calmly, and Mello isn't really listening, but Near nods slightly and makes the action figure make a circle in the air. "I will of course provide you with all the information that I can, but I have no doubts that your own talents are more than enough to suffice. In fact, you are most likely better equipped to deal with the circumstances than I am."

Mello finally looks over, realization dawning. Near just continues to look at his toy. On the other side of the church, Matt stumbles a little and V has to catch him to stop him from falling, while L climbs to his feet.

"I will send you messages every few weeks. Under no circumstances are you to come and attempt to collect me. Do you understand?"

While Mello continues to look at him blankly, Near nods. L has faith that Near will make sure all his requests are completed, and that Mello will not countermand even the ghost of his authority. Although he has plenty of criticisms in the way Wammy's House was run, which he's currently rectifying, it undeniably produced three of the most loyal...

He cannot think of that right now.

Mello follows him as he walks towards Matt and V, but Near stays, quiet and crouched, without turning to look at the man that L is quickly coming to think of as his latest opponent. And certainly a worthy one, too, if their one conversation had been any indication. As dangerous as the circumstances were, it was refreshing to not feel as though the battle was over, though he was less than thirty.

"V," says L, with a gracious nod, and Mello doesn't quite manage to swallow a snarl as Matt stumbles again. Pushing the dazed man forwards, V nods back, and Mello crosses the distance between them to get an arm around Matt and drag him (the hell) away from the (crazy) man in the mask.

Matt laughs, while he does, and wraps an affectionate arm around his neck, and V realizes with some contrition that he was mistaken, and yes, the two look to actually be lovers.

"Forgive me, Matt," he says, almost to himself, and Mello flips him the bird over his shoulder. Mello has always had keen hearing. "Jesus, I need a cigarette," says Matt, and then laughs, "woops, lord's name in vain, in a church. Sorry Mello."

Mello says something grouchy, and eases Matt down into one of the pews, batting his hands aside as he starts to idly cross himself, because he's trying to discern how bad his shoulder is, and Matt's getting in the way.

L is not watching this, instead, keeping his eyes on V. He almost flinches when Near comes up beside him, but smiles when he hands him the bag he'd brought with him. He'd almost left it behind on the bench, and that probably wouldn't have gone too well for any of them. Perhaps the whole affair has been rather upsetting; yes, he thinks he can admit that much.

Matt is his very good friend, after all, and he is (as Near has been saying) only human, and so he is allowed to worry.

"Matt!" yelps Mello, behind him, "we're in a church!" He hears Matt's drowsy, "so?" and smiles, because Mello will be 100 more effective now that Matt is returned. And their antics are faintly charming.

Bag in hand, he crosses the space between himself and V, and stands next to him, still watching the mask. It is the face of someone he knows, though he is not sure what he is being reminded of, or why.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to render you unconscious before we make our way to my home," V says, and his crisp accent makes Near shiver a little, though he isn't sure why. L looks faintly uncertain about this, and Near feels he has to comment;

"Mello will shoot you, probably."

They both see V's muscles tense, and his hand twitch, and Near amends the statement before he can get upset.

"I mean, you should wait until the three of us go. If you even need to do it, though I am not sure why you imagine it to be a necessity. It is highly unlikely that Matt is not aware of the location at which you kept him imprisoned. He is an observant person, and a clever one. Having spent even a little time with him you must have surmised as much."

V inclines his head, but doesn't back down, and Near knows why. It means the entrance to wherever L will be taken is a hidden one, which tells them a lot in and of itself. They are looking for a hidden entrance, that V is confident enough about that he does not think they would simply be unable to uncover.

Although admittedly, Near is not entirely sure that V understands who exactly he is going up against. He'll leave the education on that front up to L, in that case.

"Do you have all the information you require? Or is there something you would like forwarded?" L smiles at him, not unkindly, and V clears his throat.

"Near, you will not be permitted to contact me with any information about the case. It rests entirely in your capable hands."

"Oh," says Near, simply, and glances back at Matt and Mello, who are kissing, apparently _despite _the fact that they're in a church. Without them, it probably wouldn't come to much, but Near is confident that the three of them are adequate. "Alright. Please refrain from being killed."

"Of course," answers L, and Near keeps his face perfectly serious, even though he sort of wants to smile. "And you did bring candy?"

"Yes mother." Near still doesn't smile, just gives L's sleeve a slight tug and turns about to go and make sure Matt and Mello are doing alright. It turns out to be perfect timing, since Mello is helping Matt to his feet. He essentially drops him on Near, patting his good shoulder awkwardly before dodging away, and over to stand next to the terrorist and the detective.

"Hey," says Mello, almost kindly, and V's head tilts to one side, giving the impressions that he might have arched his eyebrows behind the mask.

"I'm already going to kill you if I get the chance, but if you hurt L, whatever fucked you up in the first place is going to feel fucking _mild, _okay?" V is very nearly impressed at his creativity, and certainly at least partially wary of his vehemence. "Because you have hurt my boyfriend, and if you kill my boss then all his 'don't kill the posh terrorist, Mello,' orders go out the window, and you and I spend some quality time learning the many uses of barbed wire..."

He looks like he's going to continue, but L clicks his tongue behind his teeth, once, and that seems to be a sort of signal between them. V watches, more amused than anything, now, as 'Mello' retreats to fuss further over the still dazed Matt. And just when Near had left him with the impression that L had brought a group of mild mannered, disconnected, quiet people.

"Balance is everything," says L sagely, as though he can tell what V is thinking, and V wouldn't actually put it past him. Maybe that's the atmosphere speaking, or the little he's learned so far of the detective's exploits, or maybe it's that the man's eyes give him the disconcerting impression that he's staring right through the mask.

Or maybe reading it, like it's moulded seamlessly to his skin, and is betraying his expressions without him knowing it. He pictures the painted mouth turning down in a frown, the black eyes widening in alarm, the painted cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

L's face is stony and still, and his eyes stay fixed on V, even as his three, what are they, students? The three of them leave the church.

They stand like that a few moments longer, each unsure what the other is waiting for.

"It's only for a year," says V, evenly, consolingly, but not really apologetic. L seems to slouch a little further, and shrugs, with one shoulder.

"I have done worse," he says, also consolingly, as though it's his place to have to apologize to V somehow, for what's about to happen. For the first time in a long time, L is not sure what is going to happen.

And V is introducing a variable into his precious equation that he has not calculated for, and that he is not sure about. Both of them are aware of how precariously they stand.

L turns away, slightly, and turns his head, seemingly to look up at the stain glass windows. Morning light is beginning to stream through them, and L seems transfixed.

It takes V a moment to notice that his throat is bared, perfectly and casually, and he only feels him flinch slightly as he slips the needle in.

The detective sags awkwardly to the ground, collapsing piece by piece, like a marionette having it's strings cut, watching the window as long as he can. V eases him down, and there's a real smile underneath the painted one as L makes a slight noise of irritation, in the back of his throat, when the mask comes between him and the window.

His strange eyes cloud, and then close slowly, and V collects his bag before lifting him like he might a child. The man is dangerously underweight, it soon becomes apparent, though V would not have had to struggle to carry him even if he wasn't.

He sets out, quietly and quickly, back towards him, to install his new guest (and hostage) before the sun rises. Tonight's dealings are not a thing for daylight.

AN: omfg, this story is running into the severe problem of having to fill a YEAR. Also, I have been bitten by another crossover bunny, so it will be competing for headspace for the next little bit. Fair warning.


	7. visionary indian angels

who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis-

ionary indian angels who were visionary indian

angels,

**Chapter Seven**

**November 17****th**

**The Shadow Gallery**

**London**

It must be said, though Matt is not an ill mannered person, L managed to awaken and handle his arrival in the Shadow Gallery somewhat more graciously than the younger man had. To be fair, this might be entirely because L is _expecting _ to awaken in a place where he has never been and where he will be kept captive, for the next year or until he can manage otherwise (and he _firmly _intends to manage otherwise, make no mistake) but there are also some things L has to cope with that Matt did not.

For one thing, there is an understandable amount of hostility, on V's part. L has no way of knowing that it is because of the whole jukebox hostage situation, but it is alarming, to say the least, to find yourself locked in a room.

He wastes no time hyperventilating, because he has other things to think about, and because panic decreases the effectiveness of his reasoning abilities by considerable margins. Instead, he sits up against the headboard, and looks around.

His new room is small, and full of bookshelves that are empty. It is, in fact, conspicuously bare of anything breakable. This would again be because of Matt's reaction. That much L does manage to guess. It makes him smile, because he never did approve of making anything easier than it had to be, and apparently, Matt had inherited the trait.

V knocks on the door, three hours later, when L is beginning to wonder if he's ever going to. L says 'come in,' and V tries the knob before using the key. L arches an eyebrow at him curiously, as he comes through, carrying a glass of water and a plate of eggs.

They are not sugary, eggs seldom are, which is a disappointment, but L is prepared to acknowledge that it would be rude not to accept them, and that he needs his strength.

"I imagined," V says, too casually for it to actually be casual conversation, "that you would have picked the lock by now, given your disciple's propensity for escape attempts."

L tilts his head and gives him what he knows is a disarming stare.

"That would only be rational behaviour if I were attempting to escape. And besides, I do not know how to pick locks."

V offers him the water, which he takes, and sets the tray with the eggs on the side table. L isn't sure what Matt did in order to provoke this much hostility, but he'll be sure to ask, later, once he's secured maybe a little more freedom than what he's been given so far.

"You don't pick locks?" asks V, which is what L believes he just _said, _but he doesn't point that out. He just nods.

"That is a skill that Matt acquired in his life before entering the institution that trained us both. While we share goals in common, we are not the same people, and our strengths differ accordingly."

"Ah," says V, and leaves the room without further comment. L thinks that usually, this would suit him just fine, but since V is a terrorist (ergo, automatically breaking the law, ergo, a suspect) it would perhaps be better to win him over than to let him keep his distance.

He climbs doggedly to his feet, still holding the water, and slouches out of the room after the masked man, following him into the kitchen. V glances up at him, and L can't tell what he's thinking, so he goes for an apology, because that's always a good choice.

"I am sorry. I was not thinking. This is your home and I am moving about through it. Am I free to come out into the main rooms, or would you prefer I did not venture out?" He chews on his thumb, and watches V putting dishes into the sink, and filling up the pan to soak.

"Provided you don't follow Matt's example, and attempt to destroy all my property, I don't see why that would be a problem," V says, grudgingly, and L smiles a little.

"Matt is a very determined young person. While I admire many things about him, as I said, he was trying to escape and I am here almost entirely of my own volition."

V for Volition, he thinks, and wonders if V is believing him or listening at all. Even Light was easier to peg down than this, and that nearly cost him his life. He feels a pleasant frisson of worry, like the game suddenly has real stakes again. It is up to him, still, though, to offer information at this point, because he still doesn't have V's interest or attention.

"Matt, Mello and Near were the three highest ranking students at the orphanage that collects children with the qualifications necessary to take up the mantle of L." He can hear V start to listen, and it makes the unpleasant task of sharing information very much worth it. "Until the process was disrupted by the unrest here. We were raised in England."

He rambles on, keeping his information purposefully undeniably personal, but mostly useless. V seems to still be listening, though, if perhaps mentally chalking him up as 'a little bit crazy.'

"And then," L says, perching crouched on a kitchen chair, in his customary position, "the unrest did begin, and the orphanage was evacuated to Japan. The older students mostly left to live their own lives and do what they could, since they were all raised to be rather charitable, and I enlisted the top three of them, given their intellect and talent."

A light shrug, and a small smile. "Although I do not doubt that you did not see that side of him, Matt is a very diplomatic force. Particularly between Mello and Near, who are, ah, as you might call fire and ice."

V is standing now, at the edge of the counter, making no pretences of not staring at him, and L thinks perhaps he might have gone too far. That the orphanage story might be seen as a bid for sympathy, and a clumsy one, at best, so he narrows his eyes and says quickly,

"And I saw you at the Old Bailey." He isn't playing this well, not well at all, and he needs to 'get his act together' as Mello might say, and work out what to do next in some sort of logical order.

"And I saw you," says V, and L finds himself surprised by how his voice sounds, for some reason, though they have spoken, before, "Visiting Justice in the middle of the night."

L 'hmms' and inclines his head, agreeing (and accusing,) "Only to have her destroyed before my eyes."

"A perverted symbol," V sounds like he might be reassuring him, but L doesn't buy it.

"And now gone completely," L agrees (accuses) again. "At least I saw it once."

V's mask smiles at him, but by the sound of his laugh, he's not feeling precisely mirthful. L is sure he can understand why. He wouldn't want a stranger in his kitchen, accusing him of these sorts of things.

"What is a show without a critic? Was the music at least to your taste, my friend?" There's barely concealed hostility in the word, and L barely contains a flinch.

"I do like Tchaikovsky. I could not help but think I was imagining it at first. There were a few moments where I thought perhaps my reason had escaped me at last." V laughs, at least a little bit honestly, and L chews his thumb a moment, before asking, "You are musically inclined. Do you play any instruments yourself?"

V glances at him, and shrugs. "I don't remember," he says, which is an answer that confuses L enough that he is prepared to forgive it while he turns it over in his mind. While he was turned away, V has slipped rubber gloves onto his hands. L did not miss noticing that he had not been allowed to see the skin, which leads him to agree with Mello's assessment. There must have been some sort of grave injury done to the man.

This time he waits for V to be the one to start the conversation, if he wants on to take place. Apparently, the answer is no, because he leaves, leaving L feeling simultaneously rather put out and more determined than ever. At least he has found his bag, which contains his sugar, which will no doubt improve his mood and charmingness by half again at least.

V contrived not to run into his latest houseguest for the next two days. He probably wouldn't have talked to him, in fact, for much longer if he could help it, if it hadn't be for the fire; that is to say, L demonstrating his complete lack of culinary ability, and setting fire to his toast.

V emerges to the smell of smoke, and a very bashful looking detective standing over the blackened remains of the bread in the sink.

"I," says L, and V sighs and goes to start cooking breakfast. L sits at a safe distance on a kitchen chair, chewing his bottom lip. The dark circles under his eyes are even more pronounced today, and V wonders if he's slept since he's been here.

"I don't think what you're doing is justice," says L, from the chair, staring at the sink, "a burglary victim does not decide the punishment. Even if they broke the best china, breaking their hands is inappropriate."

V stiffens, and looks over his shoulder at L, who isn't meeting his eyes, it seems. This probably has more to do with the toast than with expressing his displeasure. The accusation came out nearly conversational, but with a poisonous little edge to it.

"And a lawyer, once victimized, are they no longer allowed to set foot in a court room?" V asks, because L is certainly quick to question whether he is fit to pass justice.

"Oh? Which law school did you attend?" L asks, bang in response, "and may I meet your judge and jury? What of the defence attorney?"

"Well, that might be you, L. Tell me, what is your client's defence for the atrocities he has committed?"

L gives him a dull look, like it's a stupid question, but V thinks it likely means he just doesn't have an answer.

"That is not the side I am on. I suppose I espouse a philosophy of legal positivism."

There is a long moment, while V flips the egg-in-a-basket in the pan, where he does not respond. L thinks it's a more comfortable silence than the ones they've had so far. Like they're discovering the lines that separate their philosophies, and learning to navigate around them.

V is just thinking that legal positivism in a country like this is practically criminal.

"Are you the L that was in charge of the Kira investigation?" V asks him, reasonably and curiously, a few minutes later as he sets the food down in front of him, because he has done research and the widely publicized saga attracted his attention at once. The strange man on his kitchen chair nods, and looks up, and the steel that it must have taken is visible in his eyes, for once, as opposed to the usual clownish smile or cautious glances.

The mask inclines, as though V is making a respectful gesture, but L cannot be sure.

"Matt mentioned that he thought I was like him," V says, casually, almost with amusement, but L's laugh is sharp and entirely cold.

"No," says the detective, "you are nothing like that. You are, and you are not." If pressed, L might not be able to explain what he meant by this, except it had something to do with Light's sweet smile and quick stabs, and V's declaration of intentions and cautious, formulated plan. V is approaching the task of ridding his world of evil- and their task is the same, L admits that much- in a specific and thought out manner, while Light went power drunk and just killed.

All of a sudden, though, L remembers Light's laughter, in the hotel room when they trapped him and caught him and he decided that was it. So now he knows what V's smile reminds him of, and it eases and alarms him at once. He is the same, and he is not the same.

But that is internal politics, and that is nothing for him to question or deal with. He is here researching a specific case. He is here doing a specific good. He is here solving a specific problem.

"I am not here to trap you, you know," he says, mostly to cut off his own thoughts, nothing good lies down that road. He can tell, by the way that V starts, that this is something he did not know. "We are investigating Adam Sutler. Neither Mello, Near nor Matt will be trying to discern where you might attack next, or who it is you might kill. I do not think that your justice is real justice, but I am not here to stop whatever revolution you might be hatching, V."

"L," says the terrorist, with his voice like butter, all of a sudden, "don't think that you could if you tried."

L feels himself smile, and not in a kind way, and thinks that it might be his turn to look rather a lot like the mask V is wearing.

AN: wow, any author who pretends to not have at least some small sliver of their pride affected by their reviews in the SLIGHTEST, they are a lying piece of lyingness. Thank you so much to all of you, it's really, really nice to know people are reading and enjoying, and that I'm not just screaming down an empty tunnel. You make me giggle like a three year old.


	8. before the machinery

who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked

and trembling before the machinery of other

skeletons,

who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight

in policecars for committing no crime but their

own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,

_Creedy reviewed the tape once again. L, a brief message for V. Hints at some kind of payment._

_Alarming._

_Worrisome._

_A threat._

_Was the world famous L somehow linked to the terrorist V? And more importantly, was L actually in England? This did not bode well. Not at all._

**Chapter Eight **

**Nov 17****th**

**The Batcave**

**London**

Matt has not been by himself for more than thirty seconds at a time since he got back, and this was suiting him just fine, thank you very much. Mello wasn't a bad person to have fuss over you when you were sick. Well, actually, he probably was, if you actually wanted any sort of constructive help. But since Matt never does, he just needs someone around in the background, Mello's relative incompetence works out.

Matt lies in bed and he sleeps on and off, and Mello lies on the foot of the bed and climbs on and off Matt, occasionally sleeping himself, but mostly just staring up at him with shocked relief, like he can't quite believe he's back and safe.

"Dude," Matt says, his eyes still closed, "I can feel you looking at me."

"Fuck you," says Mello, "I'm allowed. Free country, isn't it?"

"No," Matt reminds him pointedly, "memo to Mello, it isn't."

Oh. Right.

In the other room, Evey is sitting next to Near, explaining her parent's story to him as he goes through news reports on St Mary's and the virus and the water crisis and everything else that went so wrong, so fast.

He's managing to wobble by, with an awkward, detached sympathy. The sort they teach doctors; sound empathic but not sad. Listen, don't engage. Part of him wants to tell her to write it down and call an end to it, but this is more efficient and likely more fruitful.

"And there were riots," she recalls, gazed fixed on the window, and Near pulls up footage of said riots and saves it, police brutality, as a young woman falls in the street, head kicked in by a horse. He has the volume off, because Evey starts looking distinctly nervous when she has to listen to the sounds.

Near isn't trying to make her nervous. He doesn't think he'd even have asked her to do this with him, if she hadn't volunteered. Well, of course he would have, he'd have had to. But he'd have done it in a way to make her think it was her idea to begin with, too.

"So it wasn't long before the fingermen came..."

Fingermen. It's an allusion to something that Near doesn't recognize, he imagines. 'Finger of the law' perhaps, on the pulse of the people. The idea makes something twist, in the back of his throat, and he wonders what is happening to him.

It used to be, he would remain perfectly detached. Perhaps, as Matt had occasionally hinted, more so than was entirely natural, at times, but he was never as troubled by that as other people seemed to be. Is this some kind of belated emotional growth?

Back to the fingermen. Concentrate on them, and not on how they make him feel... is it anger? Fingermen. Whatever they started out to be, they are now a part of what he's coming to think of as this country's sickness.

Speaking of sickness, Matt could do with his body getting back to normal, thank you. He's currently kneeling over the toilet, trying not to be sick to his stomach, while Mello draws him a bath that looks piping hot and more inviting than it has any right to.

"Sorry," he groans, wiping his hand over the back of his mouth and spitting, then flushing the toilet and sitting up gingerly.

"For what?" Mello asks, "this? Jesus, Matt, cut yourself a little slack."

Mello has dropped to his knees behind him, and reached around to start unbuttoning the dress shirt that he's been in and out of ever since their little attempt at espionage. He wants to burn the thing.

"When the boyfriend gets back from the dramatic spy novel style kidnapping," Matt mumbles, unable to help a smile as Mello jerks his shirt off just a little too roughly. Mello was never much of a nurse, "they are supposed to be weary but full of burning longing. There should be some ravishing going on here."

"Dude, you read _way _too much internet porn," answers Mello, snickering, and drawing him to his feet. "Just get in the tub and try to stay alive a minute or two longer. Evey's making chicken broth if you feel up to it later."

Matt groans as he sinks into the tub, with Mello's help managing to not fall, or to slosh hot water all over the place.

"Let me just work on the staying alive thing first."

He has his eyes closed, so it isn't till he hears the click of a lighter that he realizes Mello is lighting him a cigarette. Mello is his favourite person of all time, for still being incredibly cool even though they're twenty, and having regular sex with him and lighting him cigarettes and at least _trying _to be helpful while he vomits.

"How much do you remember about coming back?" Mello asks, taking a drag from the cigarette before holding it to Matt's lips. Matt takes a drag, then ducks under water, blowing the smoke out in a series of bubbles. Matt, Mello remembers, is sometimes about as mature as Near. Who considers Mello the most immature of them all, but these sorts of things are always circular, aren't they?

When he resurfaces, Matt answers, "Not much at all, actually, but you were there." Leaving Mello to wonder what to tell him first, since an awful lot went on, some of it spoken and a lot of it not.

"We made out in a church," is what he decides on, because that was some odd combination of hot and sinful and terrifying and overall rather traumatic. Not on the scale of Matt being kidnapped by terrorists, but pretty bad. It's not that he's really, really Catholic or anything, but he's still sort of expecting to be electrocuted for that one.

Matt smirks at him. His expression says, 'I remember that part. And it was good.' Which means Mello clearly has to punch him, in the non-shot shoulder. Though the bullet hole is all closed up and healed fine, he still wouldn't want to punch it.

"And then Near and L exchanged words, and then I told Zorro that if he hurt L, I'd fuck him up, and that I was going to fuck him up anyways, and then the three of us got out of there."

"Three?" asks Matt, once Mello has given him another drag of the cigarette they're both smoking, really. Matt's hands are under water, so he's letting Mello do the holding. Because his eyes are closed, he misses the flinch.

"V insisted on someone being your, um, proxy. I guess. So we're going to be just emailing with L for the next little while."

In the room over, Near and Evey both hear Matt holler "What!" and glance at each other, a little nervously.

"I can reheat the soup for later," she says, u-turning with her tray to go back in the kitchen. This is obviously not a moment she wants to interrupt.

Near, expression blank, turns back to his computer and statistics of the pattern of the spread of the virus, losing himself in numbers, and what he's beginning to think might be one of the biggest, most disgusting conspiracies he's ever uncovered. There have been a few, too.

"Matt," groans Mello, pushing his hands through his wet hair, and hugging him tight, even though he's having to half lean into the bathtub to do it and his shirt and pants are getting soaked. The cigarette is floating abjectly in the water, like some overturned vessel, where Mello dropped it.

"Matt, fuck, Matty, Matt. Don't do this, come on, you know it isn't your fault. He'd have done it even if you told him not to. He wasn't afraid, and he's going to be fine. He's going to _kill _that fucker, probably, make him go crazy. He's L, Matt, Zorro doesn't stand a chance."

Matt can't breathe. L's corpse, one of V's knives in his eyes, is sprawled smack in the middle of his imagination, staring at him balefully.

"Matt, Christ," Mello is shaking him a little, and Matt wants to tell him to just hold _on _a second because he just need to think and get used to the idea that the person he cares about the second most in the whole world might actually die because of him.

Mello bites his shoulder, and it startles him so badly that he stops breathing for a second, then starts again, slower. He didn't even realize he'd been gasping for air.

"You..." breathe... "You're such a freak, Mello." Dripping strands of blond hair are clinging to the side of his face. Mello is still holding on tight. "Comforting. Calm down, lover, Dracula is here to save you!"

"Worked, didn't it?" asks Mello, in the quiet, soft voice he uses when something has rattled him. Matt has to admit, it did at that, which might say more about him than it does about Mello, or maybe just something about both of them.

So much for not getting everything wet, anyways. By the time Matt finally crawls out of the cooling water he and Mello both need to towel off. Mello undresses himself, and then starts putting clothes _on _Matt, carefully. Boxers, soft canvas pants, tshirt, sweater, vest.

"Oh," Matt says, a little bit startled, "you noticed." The clothes upon clothes thing, he'd always thought that was a private neurosis.

"Yeah," Mello agrees, pulling off his own shirt and tossing it, still dripping, in the direction of the laundry basket, "you're happier. And that's cool."

They stagger, kissing, towards the bed and fall on it, and Matt moans more with the vertigo than with enjoyment, so Mello slides him under the covers and pulls off, returning only a moment later to offer him his goggles. Matt looks at them, and takes them. He's been not wearing them for so long that it hadn't even occurred to him to ask.

"Can I have some of that soup now?" He puts them down on the dresser, because the moment he puts them on he's going to want to get up and solve this. While they're still off, he still has permission to recuperate. Mello is already going to get him his food.

Maybe Matt should be kidnapped by terrorists more often. Mello never gives him things without grief. But no, that's stupid. It's good to be back.

The next day finds the three of them sitting. Matt is (tentatively) moving about the apartment, complaining about the worst hangover of his entire life. Mello is hovering around Matt, looking angry and nervous, and Near is the only one still working.

He figures they have another day before they'll be ready to join him, and he doesn't begrudge them it. But there is something he needs their advice on.

"We may have complications."

And with that, they're both silent and watching him, with the well trained easy of any Wammy graduate. There is talking, and then there is talking work, and the two are very different. He has their undivided attention.

"L's broadcast to secure V's attention was, of course, enough to betray our presence in the country to the governing regime. While the action being taken is not swift, due mostly to the crisis situation with codename V, officials are putting pressure on the world court for us to reveal ourselves. No doubt we would be 'escorted' through our investigation by the kind fingermen."

Mello purses his lips and looks out the window, considering possible repercussions of such a partnership.

"We could work around them effectively," Matt suggests, "I mean, provided they didn't kill us. And they _never _saw me. There's footage of me punching that guy all over the place. I think it's just that it's a case of letting them get a foot in the door."

"Yeah," Mello agrees, "and I don't like the sound of it, anyways. If we keep them backed off, though, we can keep them yipping at us we can toss them scraps, and come out looking like the good guy at the end of the day. Near or I should go as a liaison." A very wry pause, as he weighs the options. "Probably Near should go as the liaison."

Near grins, and Matt wonders how it is that it makes him look both older and younger at once. They all know Mello is more prone to punching than negotiating. Although his contacts in the organized crime industry are impressively vast, the political is better left to Near.

"_After _lunch," says Evey sternly, entering to put a plate of sandwiches down on the table between them, which they all obediently take, having been rapped on the knuckles already by their newfound keeper, who is more maternal than you would really suspect.

Matt knows that Mello is going to notice, but has to go anyways. Later, that night, he slips out like he's going to have a smoke, and walks the less-than-twelve blocks. Because he may have been drugged, but he is not stupid, and his sense of direction is impeccable.

"Fuck you," he says, walking through the hall, while V tries to come up behind him silently, "I can hear you. It's Matt."

"Yes," V says, and still his knife presses against the side of Matt's throat, just above the collar of his black and white striped sweater. Matt pulls the goggles down to hang around his neck, because it's too dark to see with them on. The rubber band catches on the knife blade, and he doesn't bother to fix them to hang properly.

"I'm not here to cause any more trouble," Matt takes another drag of his cigarette, "and I _really _don't want to be drugged any more, I've been sick as a dog. I just need to see him, okay?"

"No," V answers immediately, "I don't think that's a good idea." He wonders what heroin drenched era Matt's fashion sense comes from.

Matt takes another angry drag, and looks like he's going to say something insulting, but instead sighs the smoke out.

"Please?"

And while V does not like that his beloved Gallery has become a traipsing ground for detectives and their successors, he takes Matt down anyways. While he is not saintly, he feels his patience cannot be faulted in this situation.

"Matt!" L rests his hands on his knees (which are at his chest) and smiles at him from the sofa as he's tugged into the room. "You aren't supposed to be here."

"You don't _have _to do this for me," Matt answers, ignoring what he's said pretty much completely, because he has no time for pleasantries right now, V will only let him stay a few minutes, "You do know that. If it will make the investigation go any faster, switch back. Get out of here."

"Nonsense," L answers, "I think just as well here as I do there, and you, Mello and Near accomplish more between the three of you than I do. In any matter, I am mildly agoraphobic, so will not be of significant use in the next phase even if I was free to move about, not to mention the problem my nationality poses," He clears his throat. "Most importantly, V has been a gracious host, and I am striving to be an acceptable guest. Whereas _you _destroyed a very handsome tapestry."

Matt knows when he's being teased, even when it's L's subtle sort, and he just makes a face. L arches an eyebrow at him, but smiles.

"All _I _did was set fire to a toaster," L finishes, cheerfully, going back to reading one of the many papers he has strewn over V's coffee table. He is perhaps not quite as at ease with things as he is pretending to be, but for Matt's sake, he is more than willing to make believe.

There's a long moment of silence, and then a dull thump, as Matt drops the package he'd had under his coat. V berates himself for not noticing it coming in.

"Sugar," Matt says, "for your reasoning abilities. Later, L."

And with that, he turns, and nods to V, who glances at the detective. L hasn't looked back up, but he is most certainly fighting a smile. Matt knows what kinds of sweets he likes best.

"Sorry about the jukebox thing," Matt tells V as they climb the staircase leading back up. Matt has pulled out another cigarette, and is lighting it. "It was probably pretty irritating to deal with."

"I had technically taken you prisoner," V allows, slightly amused that Matt can nearly chain smoke, and still climb and talk at the same time, "and, as you said, the cloak and daggers story is not for everyone. Please reassure Mello that no harm will come to your beloved leader."

Matt shrugs, and comes to a stop, turning to V like he has something important to say, so V stops too.

"I know," the words are quiet and slow, "that you care a lot about this idea you're working on, even if I don't entirely _get _your why. But L cares just as much, and it would really, really suck if you trampled someone who was going to do as much good as he still has left in him on the way to solve this one problem."

V starts up the stairs again, but he is giving thought to the words, and Matt follows, not looking overly concerned by the lack of immediate acknowledgement.

They walk out to the front steps, V stopping the shadow of the threshold, Matt climbing on downwards, back to the empty street.

"Good luck," he calls, raising two fingers, cut off gloves and all, to give V a casual salute, before setting off in the direction of the place that's temporarily being called home.

Good luck. God knows, V will probably need it.

AN: I wrote this chapter with the song 'Ring Ring' by Mika on repeat. Is my insanity showing? I think it is. Also, there is a smutty deleted scene that I can link you to elseweb if you're interested.


	9. parks and cemeteries

who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose

gardens and the grass of public parks and

cemeteries

_That morning, V finds on his doorstep a brown parcel. In it is a box of toffees with a red ribbon, a bar of chocolate with a black ribbon, and a Storm Saxon action figure with a white ribbon, along with a __ziplock__ bag of home made gingerbread cookies. Even V can guess the code here._

_In the bottom, also tied with a red ribbon, is a little box of matches with the letter V scrawled on it in black pen._

_He's never been given a Christmas present before._

**Chapter Nine**

**December 25****th**

**The Shadow Gallery**

**London**

Aside from some good cheer early in the morning, when V came out to find the detective cutting up enough fruit for two to eat, L has barely given Christmas's presence a nod. V is not surprised, he seems neither the religious nor the sentimental type.

He opens his gifts in front of V, holding the candy boxes open so that he can see there's nothing suspicious or volatile inside them, and then lopes his way back to the couch and coffee table that he has managed to nearly completely take over. It's littered with paper and paper weights, either the conventional sorts or improvised ones. Tea mugs and glasses and L's candy boxes, keeping everything in his odd, meticulous order.

The time, this is about the end of November, V tries to lean down and read over his shoulder, L glances up at him and arches an eyebrow, and tells him that he's cheating.

V only learns two things from his continues quest to look at the papers: one, that L almost never sleeps, and two, that he is very fluent in Japanese, and takes notes in the language. This makes learning anything else next to completely impossible.

That is, until Christmas. L enters the kitchen, whistling 'I saw three ships come sailing in,' and on his way to making tea, asks V, over his shoulder,

"You know, if you answer my questions about my investigation, I'll answer yours in return."

"What?" asks V, glancing up from Father Lilliman's schedule. He's searching for any routine in his behaviour that he'll be able to exploit. Prothero lived at home, but Lilliman moves about and will consequentially be a little more difficult to pin. Then L's words sink in, and the detective has V's undivided attention.

"We are meting out justice to the same crimes, V," L says, with his back to him, as he puts the kettle on, "Only you are doing it on your own, and I am not even sure what they are yet. Will you take tea?"

"No thank you," answers V, thinking as fast as he can about the offer. The detective, for all that he is present, for all that he has a routine, for all that he has acted nearly entirely predictably, still is a factor that V is wary of.

There is art in the build up, but the part everyone remembers in the song is the crescendo. He wants Adam Sutler's death, at his own men's hands, to be a part of that symphony. No, he doesn't want it; it has to be that way. Adam Sutler is a piece of this puzzle that V cannot do without. If L reaches him first, if L stops him first and whisks him away to life in some prison cell in Asia, then he will have ruined V's music.

More than that, he cannot bear the thought of the Chancellor living out his days in more humane conditions than he bestowed upon the victims of the regime he put into place.

No, L's kind of justice is not complete. For all that it is not what Creedy practises, and for all that V respects L's abilities, it would simply not be right to let it happen that way.

"V?"

He starts out of the reverie, to see L's wide eyes a good deal closer than they were just a few moments ago. They betray some concern. And why not? There has been distance between them, but it has become nearly companionable, of late.

"There are many questions I will not answer," V says, to be safe, "but I do not deny that I am curious."

L hides a smile by thumbing his bottom lip, as though he was distracted, when V knows for certain that the powerful instrument is pointed straight at him, and there is no grit in it to stop its dials and mechanisms. It feels as though L is seeing through him; this is not a feeling V particularly likes.

"That's the risk. Play with me, trade an answer for an answer, where you are obliged to say nothing in particular, but you forfeit yourself to another question if you do, and you should not lie unless not doing so would be as good as an admission of the truth." For all that L must be almost in his thirties by now, his face is very childish. "Play with me, and because it is Christmas and I do not have a present for you, I will guarantee you an answer to one question, whether I want to give it or not."

What a tempting gamble. And with the Christmas present being what it is, V can hardly refuse, now, can he?

"By the power of truth I, while living, have conquered the world." V muses, and L smiles indulgently.

"Your propensity for alliteration is charming, but it is not the world you stand to conquer, V."

"Only whatever puzzle it is that you might present."

L's eyes widen, in an expression that might nearly be called 'innocent' were it not for the immense intelligence betrayed; nothing that knows that much and sees that far can ever be called innocent. Not when V's sure he's laughing mockingly inside.

"Am I a puzzle? I thought I was just a piece of it."

"Oh, you are the puzzle within the puzzle. An intelligent man, who betrays a ruthless streak, and cannot see the way things have to be."

L laughs, and turns away, because the kettle is boiling. He pours himself a full pot of tea, he will be working into the night, and collecting it and a mug, makes his way to the living room, pausing only to glance back over his shoulder and ask, challenging and sceptical,

"You are coming?"

V is coming.

"Can I share with you a common misconception about Christmas time?" L asks, still over his shoulder. He can't have seen V's nod of ascent, but he continues speaking any ways. "There is an epidemic of comma misplacement in the carol 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen."

V's opinion that L is, perhaps, the tiniest bit deranged is further cemented by this comment, but he makes a faintly curious sound anyways.

"The common perception is that the song goes God rest ye comma merry gentlemen, implying that there are merry gentlemen that should be resting. When, in fact, the actual song is God rest ye merry comma gentlemen. They are gentlemen who are resting merry, not merry gentlemen who are resting. There is no discrimination against the naturally dour, as befits the spirit of Christmas. Unfortunately, women and peasants aren't included, but one needs to begin somewhere. Did you kill Lewis Prothero?"

Oh.

Oh. This might not be a good idea after all. Prothero was reported as dying of a stroke. There was no discernable way for the detective to conclude foul play; none that V had seen. Except, of course, the convenience of the timing, and that L was undoubtedly aware of V's comings and goings.

"Yes," he replies, and leaves it at that. "Did you kill Kira?"

L looks kind of like he's just been slapped.

"No."

Oh. Well, next question is to the detective, and V will try to remember to keep his questions within the realm of the pertinent, at least at first, because as much as he wants to know about where L developed his peculiar morality, that can wait. It's L's turn, he asks,

"Did Prothero commit some evil against you specifically?"

That's a very difficult question to answer, because although the man never interacted with the prisoners, as far as V can remember (and he admittedly doesn't remember all of it) he was also directly a part of everything that happened at Larkhill. He decides to answer the emotional question, and not the literal one.

"Yes, he did. At whose behest are you in England?"

"The World Court." V can see, in L's eyes that he is coiling for another strike. "Are your reflexes enhanced by some action, or side effect of something that the government has done?"

"Yes," V replies, nearly frightened, now, but his voice is as steady as ever, "did you agree to this arrangement to specifically get more information?"

L thumbs his bottom lip, before answering, "I would have consented to be kept in isolation if it still meant Matt's release." But this is not actually a 'no,' which V understands to mean at least a partial yes. "Are there more people from your past that you have to kill?"

A large part of his better judgement wants to tell L that he isn't going to answer, and that means he should probable lie and say 'no,' because non-admission is as good as a yes, in this case. But there is something undeniable, something ordering him to not lie about this. V does not believe in coincidences, and L does not believe in this kind of justice, and V wants him to _see. _To know, as V does, what it is to see the course of action, and see all the good it will do to end someone's life, to see the evil that it will erase.

"Yes," he says, nearly gaily, and is gratified in part when L flinches, a little, "Are you going to try to stop me?"

"Try or be able to?" asks L, forsaking chewing on his fingers in order to pour himself a cup of the now well-steeped tea. It strikes him how fast they're going, all of a sudden, biting off questions like they're rattling machine guns of words. Like the balance they've reached is going to shift and they want to know as much as quickly as they can while it lasts.

Is L just as curious about V as V is about L?

V does not have room in his mind for another obsession, not now, of all times. While L stirs his tea, he nods, and V does not have room in his mind for another obstacle, either.

He will have to do something about this.

"Was it for some kind of soldiery?" It takes V a very long moment to construe what L might be asking. Oh, is he a superhuman soldier? Is that it?

"Not that." L gives him a slightly disappointed look, as though his favourite hypothesis has just been disproved, and V feels a little bit of smugness. "What is your name?"

L goes all kinds of frozen and stiff, and V wonders what exactly about the question touched such an obvious nerve. L looks like he's going to actually answer, but V holds up his hands immediately, and says,

"I retract that. But tell me how you came to take up the position of L?"

"I mentioned the orphanage?" L asks, "I was the best, simply put, in terms of IQ and every other sort of test they could put to me. I also had the passion for justice I needed to be successful in the role. When I was twelve, the then current L was murdered, leading to the current security measures that surround the position. I took up the mantle with relative ease."

The story is in itself, nothing special, but L takes a little sip of his tea at the end, and says, "If you like, you can call me Ryuuzaki. I think that is the end of my questions. I admit, though, that I have found another flaw in your moral pyre."

Interesting that he should choose the word 'pyre,' V thinks. Perhaps L knows how this will have to end.

"Your quest to free your country, and your quest to avenge what was done to you should be two coherent entities. You cannot clinically diagnose what would change England if you are looking through the glass of your own fury. What might have been a case of simply an unorthodox approach to a difficult problem has again transformed into something I cannot begin to understand, or to excuse."

"You've said as much before. And now you owe me my guaranteed answer, Ryuuzaki," V says, standing, "but I think I will save it for later, if the offer keeps."

L nods, not looking altogether pleased, and drinks from his mug again. His eyes are beginning to lose focus; V can see him losing himself in thought. Whatever balance there was is disrupted again, and V is not entirely sorry, nor is he entirely glad. This is altogether too dangerous.

"L." Ryuuzaki sounds wrong. It is a name this man chose for himself, not one that was given to him, or chosen for him, and while V believes that ultimately one controls ones own destiny, one does not get to control how it all begins.

"L. Merry Christmas."

His lips lose their set of near cruel determination, and curve into something approaching a soft smile. Still, perhaps, full of knives, but V likes it. It looks like the mask he's wearing.

"And to you, merry gentleman." And the detective is lost in his papers again.

_Dear Mello,_

_I hope you celebrated Christmas properly. While the situation is no doubt grave, I am becoming convinced that we will remain here for the course of the year; you three where you are, and me here. Or is it still four?_

_Time should be taken to observe holidays and niceties. Thank you for my chocolates._

_I have no advice for you, because you have my utmost confidence. You are never afraid to act when you need to, Mello, even when good men falter._

_A rather belated, but very happy birthday to you._

_L_

_Dear Matt,_

_Please try to amass as evidence much as you can. Refinement is a step we can take at a later date; I would rather err on the side of caution and sift through mountains, rather than find we had missed anything._

_Please be mindful of flu season. I hope none of you fall sick. I think you are the only one with the common sense to keep the other two wearing scarves. If one of you should... is it feed a fever, starve a cold? Ask __Watari__, he will have more to say on the subject of __flus__ and viruses than I can._

_I do miss you. Do not tell Mello, he will think I might be human after all._

_L_

_Dear Near,_

_While the investigation is largely in your hands, you are in Mello and Matt's hands. Please let them help you when they say you need it, and ask for it when they cannot see that you do._

_Keep back up files of everything that you do or learn, in case you are discovered. The threat to your lives is very real, and will not diminish until Adam __Sutler__ is either under arrest, or has met a different fate._

_Your instincts are very good, but do not be blinded by your contempt._

_Ask Matt if you ever wonder. He makes very good cheesecake, and in my old age, I have come to understand that this matters a great deal more than people usually credit._

_L_


	10. their shoes full

who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on

the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the

East River to open to a room

_"Hang on a second," says Matt, reading his letter with wide eyes, "he's told me to ask Watari about __flues__ and viruses."_

_"Mmm?" asks Mello, rolling over in bed drowsily, as Matt struggles out from under the blankets and reaches for a pair of jeans._

_"What with Watari__ being dead and all, I'm thinking I'd better show this to Near."_

**Chapter Ten**

**Jan****uary**** 1****st**

**Hyde Park**

**London**

At noon, on the first of the New Year, Near climbs out of the taxi and remembers when he used to be just Nate, and not special to anyone but his mother. He doesn't think about that 'then' very often, just when he's doing something he's going to find particularly distasteful.

Spending his afternoon in a park with an agent of a government he despises ranks fairly high on the list. Especially since it's rather cold out, even for January, and Near still hates the cold, and doesn't really like the outdoors to begin with.

He pulls his hat down a little more snugly, and once he's paid the cabby, pulls on his mittens. Then makes his way to the third park bench to the right of the gates, and settles down. Out of his pocket, he pulls a brown paper bag of birdseed. It doesn't take long for him to collect a swarm of pigeons, pecking at the ground.

L too believed that there was something important to investigate in terms of the St Mary's virus, cementing Near's suspicion. While L's letter had ostensibly chastised him for relying too much on intuition, how could he not, in this case?

"Here now, son, move along. There's no loitering here," snaps the large man, standing directly in front of him, very much all of a sudden. Near hadn't even noticed his arrival, or that he'd scared off all the pigeons. The pigeons being gone is especially a shame. Near is rather fond of birds.

"Please do not be insulting, Mr Creedy," he murmurs, with all the presence he can possibly muster, and folds his paper bag closed, to slip into the pocket of his coat, "and sit down. I will not remain for long and it would not do you good to try my patience."

The expression on Creedy's face is incredibly gratifying. Near knows he absolutely fails to look the part. Especially with the pom pom on top of the slightly lopsided hat that Evey insisted he put on. It is cold and flu season, after all.

"You're L?" the man asks, dropping onto the seat, barely containing his naked hostility.

"Of course not," answers Near, disdainfully, "you won't ever meet L. I'm a representative of his agency, you might say. Now, it was you that insisted we meet. You did want something in particular?"

"Yeah," says Creedy, filling up with bluster that Near finds kind of amusing, in its own way, "We do want something in particular. We want you out of England."

Near glances up at him, and then down at the remains of the birdseed on the ground.

"You will find that quite difficult. I am a British citizen, and illegal deportation of one of their employees will certainly gain the attention of the International Justice community. With their gaze already directed at you, can you really afford to provoke further incident?"

Creedy's lips pull into a sneer. "I don't know what their opinions have to do with how our country is governed."

"Please, do not be stupid." It's a childish thing to say, but it feels good anyways. "You know that there are those that are hoping for an excuse to end this regime. The mistreatment of the man slated to prosecute you for war crimes would be more than the spark needed."

He watches the man's face contort with rage. Near had forgotten that this was going to be the first news he had of the legal consequences fast approaching.

"And why," snarls Creedy, "shouldn't I have my plainclothes officers approach us right now and make you vanish, might I ask? Seems to me, that would be a right simple end to my problems, and unless you've got an arsenal hidden in your jacket, little boy, you don't stand a chance."

"An arsenal, no," replies Near, without any real hint of fear, "but a camera broadcasting video and audio to a nearby location, certainly. Everything you do and say, including that over hasty threat, are already being documented and sent overseas as we speak."

The best thing about the English complexion is that when irritated, it occasionally turns colours. Near wonders what he would have to do to make Matt go a shade of scarlet like that. It would probably involve copious amounts of nudity.

"And Mr Creedy, may I ask, how much do you know of the end result of the Kira investigation?"

This is a trick question. Near knows that almost none of the details were published. He's only privy to them by virtue of his acquaintance with L. Creedy will know nothing, but he seems to be pretending to anyways. Near cuts off his clumsy efforts with a sigh.

"Suffice it to say, the tool which he used is not lost, while the man himself is no more. If you make me disappear, it will be you personally that pays the price."

He imagines Matt, in the car down the road, listening to this and watching and probably laughing at his bluff, because there's only a 1 chance of L ever doing something out of vengeance, especially something as cold as that, and especially not if he knew Near had used it as a threat.

But Near does not want to die, and while that might be selfish, it is also imperative. He especially does not want to die at Creedy's hands, because the man is disgusting.

"Listen," Creedy says, "Alright. I'll give you information. Don't prosecute me and I'll tell you everything you need to know. I know _all of it._"

"Mr Creedy," Near answers, "so do we." And, watching the despair begin to show in the trapped man's eyes, "but if we need evidence or testimony, we will keep you under consideration. Until then, it is your best interest to convince your Chancellor that we are a minimal presence, and not a threat." A delicate pause. "Unless you'd like footage of what you just said to accidentally find its way onto his desk."

It always works best when they spin their own traps. Creedy, still red faced, is finally starting to see that he is not going to be able to play Near any particular way.

"Shall we go somewhere warm? I wouldn't mind a cup of tea," Near suggests, "and I'd rather not have your operatives working quite so casually close to us, don't you think?" He climbs to his feet, and Creedy stays seated, reluctant to move. Near heaves a gentle sigh, and winds his fingers into the hair coming out from the edge of his hat.

"I'm sorry for threatening you, Mr Creedy, but you do understand that it was necessary. It would help if you would come with me and help convince me that you can be useful to us."

Self-serving is something Creedy understands, he's on his feet lickety split, smoothing snow off his coat. Near smiles at him, in as childish a manner as possible, because he knows it does the opposite of putting people at ease. It makes sense for someone like him to be older, and Creedy would find it easier to accept.

None of them, not Matt, not Mello, not L, none of them _ever _tried to make anything particularly easier for anyone. Not even friends, much less horrible people like this. Even if Near isn't sure how comfortable he is playing the child any more, because you are how you act, and he just might be too old for this sort of thing. L may never really have grown up, and he isn't sure Mello has either, but he's not sure he's going to be another Peter Pan.

They walk silently to the nearest tea shop, and Near almost orders jasmine, but remembers that he's no in a society of heterogeneity, from people to food to tea.

"Earl Grey, please," and he probably will have to put lemon in it, instead of milk and sugar like L used to make for them. God, England is a stupid place.

"I won't promise you anything, Mr Creedy," he finally says, as the young waitress puts his cup- and lemon- down on the table, "but if you want me to even consider offering you clemency, you will tell me the two following things. You will not raise any objections."

He doesn't. Good.

"First of all, where did the project to develop the virus begin?" Creedy's eyes widen, "And second, was Lewis Prothero involved in any significant way?"

By the look on Creedy's face, he has hit the nail spectacularly on the head, and the man's own suspicions are beginning to dawn. Could they possibly have thought that the two things were not related? What, that there was some massive, unexplainable coincidence? Near doesn't believe in coincidences, and neither, he's sure, does V.

"Larkhill Detention Facility. Prothero was a commander at the unit."

Near has fit another of his puzzle pieces into place. There's only a few holes left, and he thinks he's beginning to see the sizes of the pieces. It's almost a shame, to come up with the answer this early, leaving L with ten months of captivity to endure.

Or rather, V with ten months of a belligerent, trapped L to endure, should L be feeling the size of his cage out. Near imagines he probably is.

"I will be going." Near climbs to his feet, leaving the tea practically untouched, still steaming on the table. They have jasmine at home, and he knows everything he came to learn. "Do not have me followed, or I will know. Do not discuss anything that occurred here, unless it is absolutely necessary. Good day, Mr Creedy."

He doesn't _think _anyone follows him, not at first. While he was sitting in the park of course he took the time to keep track of the faces that passed him by, and he didn't see any in the tea shop. By a few blocks away he's certain none of them are behind him. No cars are there that are familiar, either, and none moving noticeably slower than the traffic.

There might be people on rooftops or in windows, feasibly, but there's nothing to be done about that. He'll just have to walk the roundabout route back to the apartment.

Although he knows this is a small price to pay for their safety, he is suddenly incredibly tired and cannot really imagine much more difficult than an hour's walk through cold and the light snow. In fact, it's not often he comes to this realization, but he might honestly be incapable.

"Matt," he whispers, the camera and microphone are still on, and hopefully his friend is still listening, because is he _ever _in need of his help, "please come get me."

He can't be there right away, of course, Near realizes, because the plan was for him to walk home and Matt to drive so that the two of them aren't seen together. So he keeps walking and lets the bug he's wearing do all the work for him.

He wishes he was too tired to think, but sadly, that's not the case. Perhaps it would be easier to just let his feet rise and fall and watch the slush under them, but his mind is caught up in a mantra of 'L, L, be alright, L, be alright.'

Why he's started worrying about this now, he isn't sure. No, that's not true, it's obviously an attempt to displace his anxiety about the fact that Mr Creedy is probably currently weighing the odds of whether to have him followed and killed or not.

Near is fairly sure that he's far, far too much of a coward to make it an issue, but very seldom is it that Near even has to _ask _that question, so even though 'fairly' sure is pretty close to completely, there's still a lot of anxiety attached.

"Hey sugar, how much?" asks Matt, as the car pulls up next to where Near's walking. He ignores the comment and climbs in the passenger seat, buckling his seatbelt and closing his eyes. Matt gets it, and shuts up for the drive home. He's playing David Bowie on the car radio, which Near is pretty sure is illegal in this country.

When he pulls off his scarf and hat and mittens, and divests himself of his coat, Evey peeks down the stairs and smiles at him. He thinks she's a little bit intimidated by Mello, and will make a mental note not to leave the two of them alone unless it's strictly necessary.

"So what do you think?" asks Matt, shrugging off his jacket, gingerly, still mindful of the shoulder that took the bullet. "Can we trust him about Prothero?"

"It makes sense," Near replies, climbing the staircase wearily, "play it all to Mello and ask what he thinks. I..." can't, right now. Just can't. He's cold and tired, and as he sinks gratefully into the sofa (which again, nearly swallows him whole) Evey comes into the room bearing tea.

Jasmine, specifically.

Near thinks simultaneously that she's practically psychic, except that she isn't, she's just at least mildly observant, and that he could kiss her.


	11. laurel in oblivion

& their heads shall

be crowned with laurel in oblivion,

_"Mr. Creedy."_

_"Yes Chancellor?"_

_"I understand you made contact with the L operative successfully."_

_"Yes Chancellor. We are continuing investigation into their presence, but so far have found them not to be a threat, and are consequentially keeping most of our resources on the terrorist issue."_

_"Are you suggesting you are overstretched?"_

_"Not at all, Chancellor. Merely that L is powerless within our nation."_

_"Very good, Mr Creedy. England prevails."_

_"England Prevails."_

**Chapter Eleven**

**January 13****th**

**The Shadow Gallery**

**London**

When you lived alone, kept your own hours, had no social contacts and nothing to do but to plan to topple a dictator and weave an intricate web of revenge, gradually over as many years as you comfortably needed, you began to get used to not having to worry about the hour. A few months ago, on finding himself awake at four am, without even the slightest inclination to rest, V would simply have began preparing more explosives, or perhaps watched a film. The dichotomy between terrorist and reclusive bachelor was an interesting one.

But no longer: L is awake most of the time, V has certainly worked out, but he has the good grace to be silent as a church mouse. Which is why, having emerged from his room and found L _not _perched on his chair, watching the news on mute, looking through papers, he feels obliged to be as silent as possible. If the detective is finally choosing to sleep, it is not V's place to wake him.

Even if V wants nothing more than to challenge his suit of armour to a duel.

Instead, he makes his way out of his room, mask carefully in place, in case of L emerging, and walks silently through the darkness of the room. L has left the television on, still silent. It's faint glow casts ghostly, shifting patterns on the walls and ceiling.

Strange, that something man made can be so very haunting. V is not inclined to believe in ghosts, but he does believe in memories, and knows for certain that they do lurk in shadows. That is frightening enough for him to quicken his pace through the room, towards the kitchen.

He remembers the sound of the building exploding. He remembers the feeling of flames licking his skin. He remembers the wet slap of Prothero's naked body, collapsing on the bathroom tiles.

He collides with L practically head on in the door to the kitchen and nearly yells in shock.

L does yell, high and more worried than frightened. He staggers back, fighting to keep upright and not drop the bowl he's holding.

He loses the first battle, and wins the second, sprawling back awkwardly, holding the strawberries in cream and sugar over his head. A drop is spilled, but no more than a drop, which provokes an odd, triumphant laugh.

V's heart is in his throat. He swallows once, to calm himself, and reaching down, gently removes the strawberries from the other man's hands, and turns to set them on the counter, so he can get up.

"My apologies, L," V says, "I assumed you were resting."

"That's fine, V. I wanted to talk to you anyways." He clambers up, inefficient elbows and awkward motions. V wonders if L can see in the dark as well as he can- he managed to prepare the strawberries without much light, or too much noise at all. But no, L's eyes are wide and blinking, and fixed somewhere over V's shoulder; he must have had the fridge door open. That would do it.

"Oh? Well, since neither of us will be awakened, perhaps we could do with some light."

L has the good sense to close his eyes before the switch is flicked. His eyes open to careful slits, and V watches as his pupils adjust. He really has extraordinarily wide eyes.

"Now tell me. Do you ever sleep?"

L quirks a crooked smile, and goes to collect his strawberries. "I do infrequently, and for short periods of time. I find sugar and caffeine to be an adequate substitute."

"You've been made aware of the fact that you're probably dangerously thin?" V questions. "Not to interrogate you, but I have carried you and simply put, you are far too light for someone of your height and build."

"Ah," answers L, "well, I never worked out why that was. Perhaps the brain burns the most calories of anything in the human body. I am nearly thirty, and I have been living this way for approximately fifteen years now; I am not prone to illness or injury."

"How curious." V steps out of the doorway, motioning for him to go through first. He knows L prefers to sit in the living room.

They settle into their respective seats, and L eats a strawberry, before saying;

"I never thought to tell you this, but while we were searching for Matt, we took a moment to appropriate the young lady who accompanied you to the rooftop. Both your images were captured, and while your mask affords you some anonymity, Evey Hammond was being hunted down by the Ministry of Love at great speed."

"The what?" asks V, a trifle numbly. It hadn't occurred to him that Evey might be seen with him, and it should have. He'd been so taken with the concept of having a witness to his triumph that he'd failed to consider the cameras that were everywhere.

"Haven't you read 1984?" L asks, curiously, curling his knees to his chest and spooning up another strawberry. "I'd think it would run to your tastes."

"It was one of the very first books to be banned," V admits, "I may have read it, but a long, long time ago. I have never been able to acquire a copy, much to my sorrow."

"Yes," L agrees, "you are living Orwell's nightmare. Perhaps one day, when my work is done."

_Ah, _thinks V, _but if my work gets done before yours, my rival, then the chance will be gone; I doubt I will survive this. _ He isn't really sorry. What he is will have no place in the world he wants to create.

"Speaking of which," asks V, cautiously, "I don't mean to intrude or make you think I'm hampering, but are things going well?"

Although there's an undeniable glint of suspicion in L's face, he answers, slowly,

"I think I can tell you, yes, they are. It took minimal investigation to find out the hierarchy of the country. Near will have sorted through the media for all major events in the history of the country, and then located the facts of what really happened behind each of them, and will summarily have categorized which ones violated international law, and will have procured evidence that they occurred." L shrugs. "It is not as though the government was subtle. I think I was contacted as much for my reputation for finesse and discretion as my abilities."

V nods, because it makes a certain amount of sense.

"If they had known I was of Asian descent, I doubt I would have been contacted. If I had not been, I doubt I would have approached Matt, Mello and Near to accompany me, and you would not have had the joy of Matt's company."

They both smile. The precise details of Matt's stay have come out, to L's reluctant amusement and V's chagrin. V certainly did not miss the faint spark of pride, which made him realize, a few weeks ago, that L could be a great deal more difficult than he is being.

"Thank you," he's inspired to say, earning himself a faint look of surprise, "again, for not following his example."

"I have some experience with being forced into close quarters with an adversary," L admits, chasing a strawberry around the bowl with a spoon, "I know better than Matt that this sort of thing can last a very long time, and that it should be as painless as possible for all parties." He finally catches the strawberry, and lifts it up triumphantly. "Besides, it could be a good deal worse."

"How do you mean?" V questions, as L puts the strawberry into his mouth. There's more cream and sugar than fruit left, at this point, but this does not seem to be hampering the detective's enjoyment of the dish. It's quite the opposite, in fact.

"I once remained handcuffed to a subject for several months." L puts the spoon down in the bowl, momentarily, and gives V a very solemn look, which can only mean he's kidding. "Please do not get any ideas. I have little interest in repeating the scenario."

"Understandable." There must be a story behind that. V isn't sure they're at ease with each other enough for him to ask. "You're very dedicated."

"It was a matter of justice," says L simply. "I know that you have gone to greater lengths than that for it."

Oh, now V's just curious. That's an interesting shift of position, one that he'll just have to call him on. "I thought you said what I did was not justice?"

"Oh," replies L, wide eyes going just slightly wider, "Well, I was being polite." It isn't overt destruction, but it is an irritating little jab, and just when V had been relaxing into the conversation. "But you understand putting your faith, your purpose, your very _self _into an idea. Even if it is one I do not share or understand, it would not be fair of me to assume that it was not, on some level, a shared experience."

Which seems to V to be an extraordinarily roundabout way of apologizing and admitting that they have something in common, and is not unlike something he himself would say.

"Even," L pushes on, "if you are possibly borderline psychopathic." It startles a laugh out of V, and L sips a spoonful of the sugary cream.

"If you're worried that I'll stab you while your back is turned, I could leave you be, L." He makes no move to rise. While he does not doubt that L finds what he does reprehensible (the man has said as much on a number of occasions) he does not think L believes himself to be in any danger. No one could sit there, eating so calmly, in genuine fear for their life.

"I do not fit, as they say, your MO." Hooded eyes and a mysterious smile, made a dozen times more sinister by the poor lighting in the room. "And besides, my first ever friend was a genuine psychopath."

"Goodness me," perhaps he should make some tea, to take back to his room to drink, "well, in that case, I fit right in. How did someone as intelligent as yourself accidentally befriend a psychopath?"

L bites a strawberry in half, perhaps a touch viciously, V can't help but notice. They might have stumbled upon another sensitive subject. But, L was the one that brought it up.

"It was no accident." He swallows the last half of the last strawberry, with some remorse. "It was very deliberate. His name was Light, and I think you might have liked him. He had your smile."

Leaving V, again, trying to divine what he means. This morning has been a peculiar blend of insults and compliments, and a vague sort of honesty.

"Do you have any friends, V?"

L is pleased to see that V is disarmed by the question. The more time he spends with him, the more he learns to read the man's attitude, from the set of his shoulders and where he keeps his hands. It's somewhat like playing poker, but always, and against an opponent with a literally frozen face.

"Perhaps I should introduce you to Valerie," V says, with a sort of nostalgic warmth in his voice that L has not heard before. He is standing, so L does too. What sort of friends could a man like this be able to keep?

An imaginary one, it turns out, but L is not so rude as to say. He has decided that obviously, beneath the layers of clothes and masks, V bears some sort of extensive markings that make him unable to engage in normal social interactions.

As he quietly reads the toilet-paper biography, he finds himself smiling, aware of V's gaze on his face.

"Do you suffer from amnesia, V?" he asks, and mouths 'God is in the rain' when he comes to it, waiting for the answer. That he does not remember what instrument he plays, and that he does not remember 1984, and it would not be an uncommon side effect of massive trauma. Or an uncommon cause of this kind of complete obsession.

"Yes," confirms V, quietly, "you're right again, of course. You might be burned as a witch, if you're not careful."

L keeps reading. It makes him think of Matt and Mello, irrepressible and hanging on to each other. It makes him think of Near, struggling with wanting to be adult enough, struggling with the easiness of youth he never quite got to have, and his peculiar fears and bravery. It makes him think of Evey Hammond, baking cookies in the sunlight. _I love you, _Valerie finishes, and L inhales deeply and smells the roses surrounding them.

What a strange thing for V to trust him with.

"Kira." So quietly, he knows V will have to strain to hear. "My first friend was Kira. I think I like yours better."

"Deceased though she may be," admits V, reaching out to brush the petals of one of the roses, remembering a moment too late that he's wearing his gloves, because he's with L. It doesn't feel like anything through the leather, just another meaningless pressure. Under what's left of his skin, he knows it's soft and perfect. "I am glad to have her. She has been a source of strength to me."

"She looks," L pauses, studying the poster, with his eyes narrowed, "very peaceful. I hope that if I ever have to write an autobiography on toilet paper it won't be full of things I regret, either."

Because that's just it. Valerie sounds like a woman who's sorry that people were hurt along the way, but who wouldn't have gone back and done anything or acted differently at all. He puts the paper down, quickly, because he knows he only has a few moments until he says something about her not having wanted a lot of death to take place.

What with V sharing this, it would be unforgivably rude. He sometimes forgets that it is not V he is investigating. That V is actually the victim; for all that he's fast becoming the criminal.

Maybe, though, that's a distinction he doesn't have any right to make? V is killing people, and that is a crime. But V is also something of an army, if only an army of one, and with the support his broadcasted message must have generated, L does not think he will stay so for long. Maybe V is the seed of the revolution, and one that needs to be bloody?

L swore coming into this country that he was not here to become political. He was to investigate Sutler and be done with it.

All the same, does that give him the right to ignore crimes being committed? Justice is fair and even handed, and deals out to everyone, and L's personal distaste for Sutler's policies and willingness to see him fall will be colouring his opinions, he knows.

Still, the nagging question has been asked, and it will probably never, ever really go away:

What if V is right?

He isn't. It's impossible.

But what if he is?

"I need to get back to work," L says, urgently, looking at the floor, and feels V's surprise, practically tangible in the air. The masked man steps out of his way, which is fortunate, because in his haste, L might have tried to push past, and only ended up looking very foolish, trying to brush aside a man of much greater height, weight and strength.

He dives, with some relief, back into his papers, and facts, and research.

The cold neutrality of lists of facts and numbers of casualties hold out their impersonal, numeric arms to him, and suck him sweetly in.

[AN: aaaw, guys, this by far the most reviews I have ever got for a story (that I actually liked. On another site, a piece of harry potter GARBAGE got over ninety, and now I like to pretend that piece of my authorial history doesn't really exist.) Still you make me very happy. :D


	12. the tubercular sky

who wept at the romance of the streets with their

pushcarts full of onions and bad music,

who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the

bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in

their lofts,

who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned

with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded

by orange crates of theology,

_"And on the news this morning, notable party members have..."_

_"How do people__ ever confuse this with reality?"_

_"Why, fear, of course. And complacency."_

_"People are sometimes very disappointing."_

**Chapter Twelve**

**Feb****ruary**** 1****st**

**Batcave**

**London**

Matt rolls over, and jabs Mello hard in the shoulder. Once Mello has ascertained that the world is not ending and they are not being shot, he blinks at Matt, trying to calm his heart rate. Matt usually knows better than to wake Mello up suddenly, ever since the whole thing with the Mafia.

"Hey," Matt says, giddily, and Mello wonders if he's stoned, "guess what?"

"What?" This had really better be good. Mello does not appreciate being awake at six am. He is what you might call a night owl, and this is unpardonably early.

"I've got a way to get information to L, and it's risky, but it's going to work, and I lived to see twenty. I'm _old._" Mello, mollified, reaches out and tugs on a stray bit of Matt's hair. He's got to admit, those are pretty good reasons to wake someone up.

"I've been twenty for a while, Matt, it's not _that _old." But he remembers, it's a big thing to go through. Especially when you never really expect to last that long. Most their important work tends to happen before the age of nineteen; Mello has never looked at the life expectancy of the average Wammy graduate, but he bets it's not high, and that it decreases as you go up the charts.

"Still," Matt says, and rolls over to fumble on the night table for cigarettes and a lighter. Mello reaches over and grabs his shoulder, hard, startling Matt into stillness.

"If we make it through this case." If- it's _always _an if. "Then how about you quit that shit and we'll race each other to twenty five?"

"You can't race to ages, Mello," Matt has to point out, "you're older than me, and we age at the same rate. Some fucking genius you are. Are you sure those test results weren't a mistake?" But he leans back onto the bed, leaving the cigarettes untouched.

"So I might win," Mello admits, haughtily, but sounding smug. He knows he can be unreasonable, and isn't afraid to joke about it with Matt. "But you should cross the finish line too."

"Sure." Matt jabs him in the shoulder again. "Whatever. I think I'm going to try to convince Near to get shitfaced with me tonight."

"I'll be the designated genius," Mello replies, instantly, _someone _needs to be able to answer any calls they might get, from Creedy or L or their employers or whatever might happened, "just please, God, let that happen."

"But more importantly," Matt stretches, "listen to my idea."

"That would work," Near admits, a little slowly, "But the risks entailed are enormous, and L isn't guaranteed to receive the message."

"Sure he is," Matt shrugs, "I visited, remember? He's working in front of the television, that's where all his papers were. All we've got to do is make it a time when he's not going to be sleeping or eating. Since he practically never sleeps, that just leaves him taking supper and things with V, which is probably pretty unlikely anyways, but... three o 'clock in the afternoon, say. That wouldn't be a bad time at all."

"Agreed," says Near, "but to complicate things further, we can in no way do this if it will reveal my conversation with Mr Creedy." He holds up a firm hand as Matt starts to object, because he knows that the man is slime, but they spoke in something approaching good faith, and they might still need him, after all. "So what would we tell him?"

"What he needs to know," suggests Mello, pulling on an extra sweater. It's a cold day, for February, and Near likes to keep the apartment cool, "that we're as good as ready, and can probably prosecute within a month, maybe two, if Matt isn't found out and if I can get out into the restricted country some time over the next few weeks. I want pictures of the detainment facilities."

"The virus," Matt adds. "We've got to tell him he was right about that, for sure. He'll figure out that we know what V's up to... have you decided where he's most likely to strike next?"

Near nods, and glances down at the papers in front of him, thumbing through it for Father Lilliman's schedule.

"He has eliminated every single employee of the compound, except two. The only question that remains is which one he will target first. Father Lilliman will be returning to London this March for a week. He might move against the medical technician before then."

"Well, shouldn't you get her out of the country?" They all turn to look at Evey, as she speaks. She very seldom offers anything in terms of political contribution, except the sort of insider's perspective as to the institution of policies. The story about the time the sweet boy from hair and make up with the impeccable fashion sense and the sad eyes was dragged out, fighting the police tooth and nail.

How do they tell Evey Hammond that no, they're not here to save the coroner?

"It would put L at risk," Near finally says, bluntly, "and that is out of the question."

They all watch the pin begin to drop, slowly and uncomfortably. Evey looks like she'd like to scream at them, but under the weight of their gaze, buckles. While Near is glad for the time saved, he's also sorry that she isn't a little more... no, she is what she is, and if that gets her by, he has no right to criticize her.

"I have to—" Evey lies, climbing absently, and heading towards the kitchen. Again, Near thinks, this is probably for the best.

"Do we broadcast it under L?" Mello nods, but Matt shakes his head, instantly.

"We don't want Sutler thinking L's persisting in communications with V. I imagine Creedy just barely got out of the frying pan on us; he'd have to hunt us down for _sure _if there was any indication of that kind of conspiracy. So it's your message, Near."

Near swallows. There's something rather chilling about that. He's unquestionably leading this investigation, and now he's going to be doing it under a persona entirely of his own creation, too, and publicly. It makes him want to curl back up again, to find his toys, to solve a puzzle. He forces himself to sit straight, shoulders back, chin up.

N. He will be N, and N would not be afraid.

"Evey!" Matt, scrambling to his feet, and making his way to the kitchen, because he can tell from Near's face that he's decided, and none of them like to see Evey upset. It's sort of like trampling a kitten, for all that she's older than any of them. "It's my birthday. We're getting drunk tonight, want to join us?"

Near stands, and goes over to the computer, aware of Mello coming up with him, behind him.

"We should still be able to get access?"

Mello drops into the computer chair, which is a wordless answer, but a simple one. They'll just have to see, won't they?

Every time Near thinks he might be gaining some respect for this government, he loses it again. The hole they punctured the first time around is still as good as there; it's only a few minutes work for Mello to get them a patch on the emergency broadcast system. While they're waiting for things to load, and connections to go through, Mello even makes Near a handy, white background.

"From 'N,' please, Mello." And isn't it a thrill, to see his initial go up there, in L's illustrious font? He picks up the machine that'll distort his voice, and the moment Mello nods, begins to speak.

L sits bolt upright in his seat, snatching for the remote and pulling the volume way up. Near's voice is familiar, even through the distortions. Interesting, that he's choosing to speak in Japanese, and ingenious, but it's Near, so he isn't surprised about that.

_"L. Viral suspicions are confirmed. The__ chain of events is understood. Awaiting only confirming details, and your return. Will be finished, poste haste."_

And just like that, back to regular programming. He glances over his shoulder, and V is standing there. L wishes that he could read his expression, but from the set of his shoulders, he's angry.

"Clever," admits V, with a bit of a snarl to his tone, "it'll take them a very, very long time to translate that. I doubt there's almost anyone left who speaks that language."

"Near's resourcefulness is unparalleled," L replies, opting to sound proud and parental. "He no doubt understood that you would never have let me have the information he just relayed."

"Which was?" V asks, succinct and firm. When L doesn't answer, he takes a step forwards. "I'll choose now to make good on my Christmas present, L. Tell me."

"Oh," L answers, and looks over his shoulder, smiling gently, "in that case, I know that Sutler was the one to unleash the virus, and I'm sorry for what happened to you."

V disappears around the corner, and L registers the swirl of his cape. This means V is going out tonight, and he isn't sure why, but it's probably best that he has some uninterrupted time to himself. Confirmation of this theory is going to affect everything he's understood so far, and will take time and silence to process completely.

"Matt," says Near, unsteadily, "I know it's your birthday. I just fail to see how this can possibly be a good idea."

"How is this a _bad _idea?" asks Matt, pouring the shots, more than generously.

"I'm with Matt on this one," Mello joins in, spinning absently in the computer chair, "I can be on guard for the night, and after this afternoon, the score runs us, one, Zorro, nothing. That has earned us a little bit of a celebration. Besides, I want to know if Near's a lightweight or not."

"I am smaller than Matt, so my tolerance will naturally be lower. Not to mention the fact that I do not drink. Anyone of passing intelligence should be able to ascertain as much, Mello," Near says, poisonous sweet and rather childish, really, Mello thinks.

"Well, _Evey _will drink with me," announces Matt, managing to sound triumphant, despite the unspoken 'anyways.' "And Near can afford to try _one. _This stuff isn't that strong. And it's my birthday."

He finishes pouring out the beer glasses too, and picks up his shot with much relish.

"Besides, you have no idea how hard it is to find Baileys in this country, these days. So man up, everyone. On your marks, get set, _drop._"

"Peer pressure says _yes,_" Mello teases Near, with only the tiniest bit of unkindness in his voice, watching Matt slam the concoction with practised ease, "and he didn't put any whisky in yours, Near, it really won't kill you."

Evey is drinking with considerably more ease than any of them would have pegged her for.

Near sighs, and drinks the thing, because at a certain point that does become easier than arguing. Not with Mello, but with Matt, who just looks mildly saddened and put out in such a way that probably makes women and the occasional thusly inclined man want to give him whatever they have in their pockets, and seas want to part for him.

Near needs to learn how to do that.

True to Matt's word, Near only has to drink one irish car bomb before he's excused from the proceedings. Since Matt and Evey are showing no signs of stopping, and she's blushing and giggling, and he's got his goggles hanging around his neck and his vest off. Mello is still spinning back and forth absently, checking various email accounts in between bounces, and reading what looks like one of the few remaining American newspapers still published.

He makes his way into the kitchen, because to his profound embarrassment, he is a little bit light headed. He isn't sure why he finds this embarrassing; it was to be expected, after all, but all the same. Perhaps it's a symptom of his intoxication that he feels this way.

Either way, he'd best get something to eat, before heading back to face Matt and Evey's celebrations, and Mello's bemused watchfulness.

He decides what he'd really like the most is ants on a log, like they used to get back at Wammy's once in a while. There's celery in the crisper and peanut butter like substance in the cupboard, and raisins everywhere, since they're an easy to transport, cheap source of fruits and vegetables. Convenient, for a government that won't even sell butter any more.

Much as it pleases Near to see these little symptoms of weaknesses, he would really like some jam and bread and butter. That might be the first thing he does when he gets home.

For now, he concentrates carefully on not dropping any of the peanut butter as he spreads it on the celery.

Evey's laughter drifts into the kitchen, loud and unguarded, and the clink of a glass being set down on the coffee table. He hears Matt swear appreciatively, and starts dotting the celery and peanut butter with raisins, spacing them approximately six millimetres apart, and placing them width wise, to take advantage of the maximum raisin carrying capacity of each stick of celery.

There, ants on a log.

The Great N settles down on one of the kitchen chairs, curling up and taking a tentative bite of his treat. He closes his eyes, and savours.

Today, he regained something important. Since L left, there has been a faint sense that the task set before them was largely impossible. But if he can be N, and can be an adult and a threat, and a political force to be reckoned with (and he knows he can be) then this all just might _work. _

Maybe the triumph is partially alcohol, but it's undeniable;

He has the world at his fingertips. He is holding the last piece of the puzzle in his hand. And it's a very, very, very good feeling.

[AN: if I can fucking finish my criminology paper today, then I may post another chapter tonight in celebration. This is a big if, since it's a very finicky paper and fucking legal causation can go throw itself down a well.


	13. stanzas of gibberish

who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty

incantations which in the yellow morning were

stanzas of gibberish,

_"And still no news of the terrorist, Mr __Creedy__?"_

_"None Chancellor."_

"_Disappointing.__And yet, unsurprising."_

**Chapter Thirteen**

**February 27****th**

**The Shadow Gallery**

**London**

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

L saw the Shining, a few years ago at Mello's insistence, and since then hasn't been much inclined to put much stock in this expression, since apparently people who repeat it too often go berserk and murder their families in buildings that spontaneously manifest rivers of blood and men being fellated by bears.

However, the grand piano in the center of the gallery does eventually become too much to resist.

It has been nearly four months since he arrived here, and he has walked past the piece thousands of times; it's difficult to avoid, centered in the middle of the room like a masterpiece. The statue that V explained Matt was going to bludgeon the jukebox with rests on top of it.

It's on a particularly nondescript day, late February, when he finally succumbs to temptation. That's not to say that this has been a long, drawn out ordeal he's had with himself. While steeped in work, L felt no desire to sit down and play.

But V has been gone all afternoon, and has returned the past few days with a faintly chemical scent about him, leading L to believe that he's putting together the explosives that'll destroy the houses of parliament. This afternoon, while V is out again, L is walking past the piano, and suddenly feels a practically overwhelming urge to sit and play.

Simply put, he does.

The acoustics aren't perfect, the room is too oddly shaped, and the stone too flat for that. He can hear echoes, but he ignores them, in favour of playing. It's been years, he's surprised to be so easily entranced.

That's what V returns to. He hesitates in the stairwell, listening to the notes drifting upwards, and begins to descend quietly, hoping not to interrupt. Coming into the room, he knows L has heard his arrival when the man's nimble, long fingers playfully tap out the refrain to 'Phantom of the Opera.'

"You play very well," comments V, removing his cloak and marvelling at the difference in L's posture. The piano might be the one place he doesn't slump lazily.

"Most of us studied one kind of instrument or another, at Wammy's," L replies, slipping into something light, but faintly melancholy. "Are you nearly ready for your day, then?"

"Oh." V adjusts his gloves, slightly, pulling them up at the wrist. "I think I saw your Near, today."

L's fingers nearly falter. V sees the tremor run through them, but the notes keep on coming, so he makes no comment.

The detective is silent, until the song finishes, and then he folds his hands in his lap.

"Sit with me, V?"

The request is quiet, but rather firm, and with just enough polite hope in it that V doesn't bother to consider what the consequences of refusing would be. Because he wants to see how L handles the ball he just lobbed him, in their perpetual game of conversational tennis.

He settles down on the bench next to L, there's more than enough room, and carefully plays a chord. It's finicky, and rather difficult with his gloves on.

"I know the tested the virus on you," L is playing something minimalistic, something quiet. V's hands freeze, and he can hardly hear the music, just L's low words. The man speaks with very little inflection at the best of time, and even more so when he's being especially serious. "I know you're targeting people crucial to it's inception. I don't have the list of who that might be, but I know there are only a few names on it left, at best."

L isn't even _looking _at him and V feels as though his eyes are tearing him apart, as sure and steadily as any knife.

"Matt, Mello, and Near _will have that list. _They will take no action against you out of concern for my safety."

V does not doubt this. He remembers the look in Matt's eyes, even from behind his goggles, on the way up the staircase. He remembers Near's hand, curled casually in L's sleeve.

"So the flock come to care for the shepherd," he says, watching L's hands slip across the keys.

"Yes. Now, because they are still here for a purpose, it is likely that their investigation will lead them to these people. The percentages of this being increased, with the knowledge that these people do not have long to live."

"Of course," agrees V, still a touch numbly.

"If you encounter any of the three of them," L's hands do falter, now. V can't tell if it's deliberately or not. They clench for a moment, before resting on his lap. "If any harm befalls them."

V remembers Mello's violent, vitriolic threats. He remembers Matt's cautious concern. He wonders which route L is going to take.

"Their deaths will have been necessary, but I doubt that I will trust myself again."

Oh, bravo. Factual, elegant, precise and calculated to be heart wrenching. V glances at the other man, who's looking down at his hands. His shoulders are bent again, posture returning to what it was. The dark circles under his eyes make him look gaunt and alarming, and somehow not quite human. V cannot bring himself to believe L's remorsefulness entirely.

"I do not feel that Mello will follow your instructions to the t. He displayed a certain amount of, ah, discontent."

It's interesting, that the words the two of them use are so similar, but delivered so differently. V substitutes verbal dramatics for facial expressions, painting pictures with tone and inflection. L supplies neither, with flat eyes and a flat voice.

He would be a formidable poker player, but V has had the luxury of being able to study him for some time now, and is perhaps able to read him with a little more ease. That's why the sadness doesn't strike an entirely genuine note.

Especially not when he turns to him, smiling.

"I hope it will be enough for you to know that they do not mean you harm, and they are still not following you. If you give me leave to send another letter, I can order them to do as much, doubly securing your position."

L practically holds his breath after the request, and raises his hands to the keys, to start playing again, as though he isn't waiting for V's response. A nod, just a nod is all he needs.

Yes. _Yes. _V's head inclines in agreement, and L begins to see the path things will take. He might have a chance to serve both justice and impartiality then, and keep both his mistresses well satisfied.

He knows V may not trust him entirely, in terms of this, but what he's said is hopefully true. Matt and Near should both have the good sense not to pursue V, and Matt is more than capable of convincing Mello to behave, when his life is at stake.

Or, he has been so far. Matt must have turned twenty a few days ago, mustn't he? And L forgot his birthday, too.

Good grief, but his mind is wandering. He blames the posture the piano is forcing him to adopt. In order for his feet to reach the ground, and his arms to be able to reach the keys, he had to sacrifice a good portion of his reasoning ability.

At least it's possible to play barefoot, otherwise L might become a veritable simpleton. As it is, he's certain that he could have managed the conversation they just had a good deal less clumsily if he had been allowed to adopt his customary posture.

But all the same. What's done is done, and there's no use crying over spilt milk. That, unlike the 'all work and no play' expression, is something L firmly believes in.

Mostly, because he has never seen a horror film involving a haunted milk bottle, and if he did, he's certain it wouldn't have any scenes with bear fellatios.

L grins, aware that he must look extremely silly, and begins playing the first duet he ever learned for piano; incidentally, probably one of the first duets every human being learns on the piano. He isn't even sure he remembers what it's called. C-C chord-chord; A-A, chord-chord; D-D chord-chord; G-G chord-chord.

V recognizes it, of course. Heart and Soul. He has a version of it somewhere on the jukebox. But with his gloves on, even the simple part he has to play is probably beyond him. L lets the notes repeat, tantalizingly.

Of course V has to join in.

"You could take your gloves off," L says, gently, "since you have no need to hide that you are extensively scarred. I surmised as much a long time ago and the sight will not upset or offend me."

C-C chord-chord; A-A, chord-chord; D-D chord-chord; G-G chord-chord.

L thinks, from the way the fabric of V's collar shifts, he might be biting his bottom lip or clenching his teeth under his mask. Beyond that, there is no way of seeing his indecision. His hands are still. L keeps playing, mostly to see if he'll do it or not.

He freely acknowledges that he hopes he will. After Heart and Soul there are a host of duets for the piano, that L would be far from sorry to explore.

"I've never really played piano with anyone except my teacher," he admits, fixing his eyes on his fingers, as though he has to watch to remember the well known notes. D-D chord-chord; G-G chord-chord. He'd try to convince him more, but V needs to make up his own mind.

True to his word, he doesn't so much as blink when the gloves are slipped off. V's hands are an angry colour, and the skin is painfully mottled and pocked.

The damage is extensive, but his hands are strong and graceful as L's, and they begin to play as though they were born to it.

Perhaps V was a musician before he was V.

L doesn't know. He isn't really sure it even matters; now, V is what he is, and there is certainly no going back.

L wonders when his point of no return for this state of affairs will be, and whether it came that day in the church when he took a deep breath and let V slip the needle under his skin. Perhaps. Or was it before that? Or has it even come? He'll just have to wait and see.

_Mello, Matt, __Near__ and __Evey__ too,_

_Thank you for your message._

_It is beyond crucial that if you see V, you do not attempt to intercept him or take any actions against him.____I'm thinking specifically of you, Mello._

_I am well, although nearly out of sugar. I wonder if I will survive: V does not seem to believe in cruel and unusual punishment, so will no doubt find a way to procure some when he sees my profound suffering._

_I trust the investigation is proceeding well, and that I do not have to tell you that you have my complete confidence, and all the clout and authority my name(s) possess, should any of them be contacted. It is best that the world does not think me gone._

_Another happy birthday is owed, and this time to Matt. I hope you behaved yourself._

_Keep safe, all of you,_

_L_

[AN: Criminology paper had it's ass pwned. It is written, I am smug, and as promised, here is another chapter. Albeit, a short one. Actually, the shortest one thus far, by a few hundred words, and yet still an impressive length for me, everywhere _but _this fic, for some reason.


	14. the nitroglycerine shrieks

who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits

on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse

& the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments

of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the

fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis-

ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the

drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,

_"Matt?"_

_"Yeah, Near?"_

_"Lilliman is in the city for the weekend."_

_He glances up, sharply, and stares at Near, who's looking at the newspaper heading dispassionately, with a lock of hair curled around his finger._

_"We'll see how it goes then, won't we?"_

_"I don't want Evey to know." Near's voice is quiet, but firm on this point, and Matt nods his agreement, looking back down at the newspaper he's reading, now keeping an eye out for stories pertaining to the priest's presence. It's some things that it's best just not to tell their guest. Some things that none of them particularly want her to have to understand._

**Chapter Fourteen**

**March 12****th**

**Father Lilliman's Residence**

**London**

"V," L mutters, uncertainly, as he's led firmly up the stairs by his arm, "I don't know that this is a good idea."

"I will not let any harm befall you," V reassures him, ignoring his gasp as they hit the cool night air. L's toes try to curl inside his shoes, nervously, but the leather restricts their movement. This is why he doesn't wear them, but V insisted, for some reason.

L doesn't understand why. While being barefoot is not exactly inconspicuous, given that he's travelling with a masked, wanted terrorist in a cloak, L imagines that it would be the _least _of his problems. He opens his mouth to tell V as much, but then they're out in the wide open street, and he decides it would probably be best to keep quiet. When one is being dragged about at the mercy of a masked madman, one behaves in ways one normally wouldn't.

Really, he hates having to compromise his position like this, but there's something very different about V tonight, that he'd rather not tangle with, when it comes down to it. He'd also rather not be left on his own in the open streets of London, at just past sun down.

He wasn't lying about the agoraphobia. It isn't crippling, but it's enough to make him keep his eyes fixed on V's gloved hand around his wrist. His shoulders are slumped and the thumb of his other hand is pressed tight against his lips.

This is all making him feel rather out of control, and he doesn't enjoy it in the _slightest._

Fortunately, with V rushing them through back alleys and parks and passageways, it doesn't take more than an hour to reach their destination. Unfortunately, by the time they have, L is twisted and turned about so badly that he isn't entirely sure he could trace their steps back. No doubt, this is what V intended, since L is not in a position to wander through the streets of London he is securing his continued presence. He has no where to run to.

Sometimes, L wonders if V is the most skilled strategist he has ever tangled with. Second, perhaps, to Yagami Light. Raito-kun. Why is he thinking about Light as they come up to the church? Perhaps that's because it's easier than remembering the chapel at Wammy's, and Watari, Mr Wammy, driving him through probably these very streets, years and years ago.

"V. I am distinctly uncomfortable with this situation." He lets a bit of ice carry into his voice, as he's guided firmly up the metal stairs of the fire escape. Someone has taped the lock of one of the emergency exit doors, and they enter through it. He fears, for a moment, that an alarm will be set off, but none is.

"I'm fulfilling your own request." V's whisper is harsh, and full of anticipation. L doesn't understands what he means, but lets himself be pulled through back corridors. "Open justice, L, and if the hearing is held _in camera_, well, you will understand the delicacy of the situation."

No. He can't mean what L thinks he does.

He doesn't have long to wonders. V drags him through into a nearby room, all plush fabrics and carpets and a soft, big bed, and towards a nearby door. He yelps in surprise when V pulls him upwards and literally shoves him into it. As his back connects with the clothes, knocking hangers down on his head, for the first time, he aims a blow at V.

He's badly off balance, so the kick connects with his chest, and V is able to brush it off as one might a fly. Then he's climbing in the closet too, pushing L all the way back against the wall, and closing the doors after them.

L tries to throw an elbow at him, rather than kicking, given the close quarters, but he's tangled in what feels like a set of robes, so the effectiveness of the blow is reduced considerably. V closes a hand around his throat and he doesn't stop struggling. The sound of a door opening in the other room renews his efforts, even if V is pressing harder and L is beginning to feel a little bit light headed.

V really can move abnormally fast. Before L can so much as choke out a yell, he has one of V's hands over his mouth, and he's spun and pressed hard into the wall, arm wrenched up behind his back. There's a button of a jacket pressed between his shoulder and the wood, a sharp point of pressure, and V's weight leans, unforgiving, into him. He has been effectively immobilized

L grits his teeth in frustration as V turns his head for him, so he's forced to look out of the closet, through the slats in the wood, at what's going on in the room. He misses the new occupant until she moves.

There's a child, no more than thirteen, and dressed like a little doll. For a glorious, naive moment, L wonders if she's just come from a costume party, and then realizes precisely how short that little ruffled dresses, and realizes she must be a prostitute.

That's why she's here. She can't be the one V is going to kill, she isn't old enough to have been more than in diapers when the problems all began here. She's not much older than most of the children from Wammy's house.

It's one of the saddest things he's seen in some time.

Now there's someone else coming into the room. The man in the hallway calls him a bishop, and closes the door after him. The prostitute puts on a pretty smile, and V leans in to L's ear, and whispers, barely audibly.

"Gentleman of the jury. The man before you stands accused of crimes against humanity. He was party to the offence of the development of the St Mary's virus, testing it on human beings, and was an accessory after the fact of that same crime. He also stands of accepting for himself money, valuable consideration, office and place of employment as bribery in exchange for his silence, and furthermore with obstructing justice."

L tries to bite V's fingers, but can only get a purchase with his teeth on the leather of the gloves, and for his trouble gets a short laugh in his ear and is shoved a little harder against the wall. V's hand tightens and his jaw begins to ache.

"And also, multiple charges of soliciting prostitution, sexual exploitation of a minor. He pleads innocent, but, as you can see, the facts are speaking for themselves."

The little girl's dress is coming off. L closes his eyes tight and V shoves him again. He opens them, obediently.

"How do you find the defendant?"

With V's hand still tight on his mouth, all L can do is shake his head as hard as he can, hoping V will feel the motion.

The hand withdraws, but L can feel the knives V's carrying, and knows better than to yell. With the violence in V's voice, he has no doubt that his life would be forfeit.

"I won't give you _permission _to murder someone." He keeps his voice a low, venomous hiss, and tries to turn to look over his shoulder at V. His arm is aching furiously where it's still pinned.

"Then you want his evil to continue." V makes a 'tch' sound in L's ear. "And that young woman," it's a stretch to even call her that, "is forfeit. I brought you here to show you, L, the people I am killing are not innocent. This is not the worst evil this man has done."

L considers his options, weighing ways to get out of this situation without anyone dying or being hurt.

"You know he is a monster, L. You can see it right now. You know he needs to be stopped, or there will be another girl, and another. He is living off the money from Valerie's blood. He is living off the flesh of my body."

_"Martyr," _snarls L, like an insult, because he can't think of a way out, and he should be able to. He stays silent and the girl is forfeit, and V probably kills the bishop anyways. He says yes, and the man's death is on his conscience. He tries to fight and he is killed. He keeps V talking until this is over, and he's left, and if by some miracle V doesn't notice, the girl is still forfeit.

"But then I sigh, and, with a piece of scripture, tell them—That God bids us do good for evil."

In the frenzy and terror of the moment, L is _terrified, _he can't even remember what play it is that V is quoting. He is terrified because he knows what it is he must do.

"Someone!"

His voice shakes, but he forgives himself for it. He expects the slide of steel between his ribs, any instant now, and is aware that it is a mercy when V's hand curls in his hair and slams his head forwards against the wood.

Stunned, and suddenly no longer supported, he sags to the floor while V bursts out of the closet. The girl on the bed screams, and V pushes her out of the way, dragging the bishop off her.

L looks up from the floor as she stumbles into the corner. Tears are ruining her makeup, painting black streaks down her cheeks. He can feel blood trickling down his temple, hot and sticky.

A man bursts into the room. The assistant from before, and V whirls and L, for a long, deranged moment thinks that they are saved.

"Father Lilliman!" L assumes he must have been bribed to vouch to the morality of what happened at the medical facility where this all started. His assistant freezes in the doorway. V turns, and L barely catches the movement of his arm, it's so quick.

The spray of blood from the knife wound is disgusting. He closes his eyes just in time. A drop lands on his lips and he licks it off without thinking, then puts his face down on the carpet with a shudder. The body lands next to him with a dull thud, and even though there are alarms sounding, none of them will be here in time.

"And thus I clothe my naked villainy with old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ; And seem a saint, when most I play the devil,"

"Have mercy!"

"Oh, not tonight, Bishop. Not tonight."

L drags himself up, crawling towards the little girl, refusing to look in the direction of the wet sounding noises. V is beating the man to death, but the little girl is screaming. He's aware that he must look like a monster to her. It's possible that his approach is frightening her even more than the attack itself.

"Close your eyes," he tells her, and feels sick because he can still taste the blood, "little one, just close your eyes. It'll all be over soon, I promise."

He obviously isn't that frightening, because she grabs him tight and buries her face in his shoulder when the Bishop's screams start to burble forth. L tries his best to cover her ears.

He miscalculated. He miscalculated gravely. His actions could not save Lilliman, and he destroyed her innocence more than the bishop ever could. He is responsible for the death of the assistant.

He actually hears the moment the Bishop stops breathing. He can also hear the security guards racing through the stairwell, and the alarm, and the little girl's tears, and soft fall of V's boots on the carpet as he comes towards them.

"We've got to go."

L doesn't know if he can move. He's not terrified by the violence; he's done worse than this on his own, in the name of interrogating suspects. He's done _horrible _things during interrogation, and had nightmares about them afterwards.

He's just never had it be out of his control before. Not since Kira, and even then, he never had the blood of Light's victims in his mouth.

V drags him bodily to his feet, and the little girl screams and tries to cling to him, but is shaken off. There are men running through the hallways, almost in the room, and L wonders how V is going to manage this, or if this means the end of both of them.

The window. It's thrown open, and V swings out it, L practically over his shoulder. The trip to the ground is a blurr of jolts and balconies, and V only drops him _once _but it's onto soft grass and only from a few feet. He's fairly sure he might have cracked a rib on V's shoulder.

"Can you walk?" V asks him, and L climbs determinedly and dizzily to his feet. Since he is capable of doing so without vomiting, odds are that he is not concussed.

With one of L's arms over V's shoulder, they take off towards the shadows of an alley. V is doing most of the running and taking most of L's weight too, while the detective stumbles along. The blood from his forehead is getting into one of his eyes and it's stinging, so he just closes both of them and lets V lead the way.

By the time the sounds of sirens and alarms fade in the distance, V has slowed to a quick walk, and L is able to keep up. The masked man eventually surrenders his arm, and he finds himself only swaying a little without support.

"You're a fool," V snarls at him, "and that man is dead because of you."

"It was your knife," L says, dully, trying not to step on litter or to lose his footing. A rat scuttles out from behind the garbage and startles him into nearly falling. He doesn't grab for V. "But I know that."

"A fool and a hypocrite."

"Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes." L very seldom chooses to resort to quotations to argue, because that's a cheap way to get out of having to think on your own, but today he is lowered to it. He does not know if he could think on his own if he tried.

V is seriously considering swearing, but instead holds his tongue, as L holds up a white sleeve to his temple, to stop the trickling blood.

When they get back the Shadow Gallery, V has to support L's weight going down the stairs. His legs look too unsteady to hold him, and he's clutching the banister with a furious, white knuckled grip. V keeps him from falling, depositing him on the piano stool; the first seat once you enter the gallery.

"Stay there."

L does, but only because he doesn't wish to try V's patience any further tonight. He knows he is probably lucky to be alive as it is.

V re-emerges, bearing a damp washcloth and a bowl of water. He sets the bowl on the seat next to L, and with a firmer touch than is actually comfortable sets about cleaning his face. L clenches his aching jaw and bears it.

He has marshmallow peeps in his room. He needs the taste of blood out of his mouth very badly. If Watari were here, he would know this, and would have brought them, but Watari is dead.

"That's enough," he says, urgently, climbing to his feet and pushing V's hands away with surprising strength, given that the world is spinning, "thank you. _But I need to be elsewhere, Light-kun."_

Did he just call him that? Hopefully the pronunciation, Raito-kun, will keep his host from realizing he just made a Freudian slip comparing him to a serial killer. The entire sentence was Japanese, so he should be safe. Although perhaps, at the moment, L can't entirely bring himself to care whether V knows or not or gives a damn or not. He's going to be very angry about this when he can think straight.

"V."

He pushes past him and towards the dubious sanctuary of his bedroom.

AN: confession to make. There are four scenes that are the reason I wrote this story. I imagined them, and then structured the plot to include all of them. The first, was Matt threatening to bludgeon V's jukebox. This whole chapter is the second. smiles it feels good to have it written. Two down, two do go.


	15. broken wineglasses barefoot

cried all over the street,

danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed

phonograph records of nostalgic European

1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and

threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans

in their ears and the blast of colossal steam

whistles,

_"It happened."_

_"Yeah?" Mello looks up from his cereal (Count Chokula, who knows anyone still made that shit?) and understands immediately by the expression on Matt's face what he's talking about._

_"Sonovabitch. I hope L ripped Zorro a new one for it."_

_"If he even knows, Mello," Near comments, spreading his beloved peanut butter on his celery. "We don't have time to speculate, Evey's just getting out of the shower. Let's get back to work."_

**Chapter Fifteen**

**April 29****th**

**The Apartment of Delia Surridge**

**London**

His original impulse was to go to kill Surridge as quickly as he could after Lilliman's murder, but L's reaction had distracted him. Possibly more than he should have allowed, but L has been far deeper under V's skin than he should have been from the very beginning.

Otherwise he wouldn't have been so determined to show him why he did what he did, and why it was important. L's reaction had been in part disappointing, and in part infuriating. V had shown him as good as everything. He had sat, and played piano with him, and L knew what was _done _to him and still would not admit that Lilliman and his cohorts deserved to die.

It has been more than a month, and V is still swinging like a pendulum between guilt and rage. He knows neither reaction is precisely _right, _but he can't help himself. And he deeply resents the detective for it.

They have exchanged perhaps ten words in the time between now and then. All of them have been absolutely necessary, or at least, borderline polite. L apologized once when they collided in a doorway, and asked him where he kept the pots. The detective had even begun cooking for himself.

Not to mention to flinching, nearly imperceptibly, when V moved too quickly around him, this irritated him to no end, since he had surely proven by now that he was going out of his way not to harm L. No matter what he interfered in, what he almost ruined.

The thought of his grand revenge spoiled, because of L, made his blood run hot in his veins. The thought of England's emancipation dismantled at this stage, alternately made it run cold.

This could not all come to nothing; too many people had died. Too much had been lost.

This thought steadies his hand, and gives him the resolve he needs to slip the needle into the sleeping woman's arm. She stirs slightly, and he retreats back into the shadows, to watch her wake.

"It's you, isn't it?" she asks, and her voice is old and soft, and kinder than it ever was when she ordered him (and Valerie too) to stand or sit or give her their arms. His heart constricts, and he damns L for making him doubt what he had known so certainly.

"Yes," he replies, because her shoulders are tense, and she is waiting, frightened.

"You've come to kill me."

She knows it, she hasn't made it a question. She is the last one left, and is no doubt aware of it. She is no doubt aware of the reason for it, too.

"Yes," he answers again, simple as that. There is no pretence here. She knows what she did, and he always thought that she alone realized that she was guilty. He remembers her standing there, the night he exploded the detention center. She understood.

"Thank God."

She understands.

Mello sits bolt upright in bed, heart pounding. Matt sits up a moment later, silent, but with sleep in his eyes. He looks around, trying to ascertain if it's a threat, or if Mello has just had a nightmare. There's nothing in the room.

"Bad feeling," Mello replies, and eases back down, letting out his breath in an uncomfortable 'oof' as Matt flops on top of him, and drives the air out of his lungs. Matt's asleep again practically instantly, for which Mello is glad, he didn't mean to disturb him.

It's just a bad feeling. There's nothing to substantiate it. But Mello survived in the mafia, and it was for a reason. He always trusts his instincts, and he isn't dead yet. There've been close calls, certainly, and there was losing Matt at Jordan Tower...

That was pretty big, actually.

He tells his instincts to shut up and let him fucking get to sleep. Matt makes a muffled sound and drapes over him a little more, like some living, redheaded blanket, and Mello resists the urge to shove him the fuck off.

Because he's a good boyfriend, he smothers it. Matt will not appreciate another bruise in the name of Mello's paranoia, and it's probably just all this getting to him. The deaths and camps and shit would be enough to make anyone lose a few hours of sleep.

With a deep sigh, he closes his eyes. Unbeknownst even to him, his hand strays closer to where he keeps the gun under the mattress.

"Is it meaningless to apologize?" asks Delia, looking at V with wide eyes filled with a sorrow that he wishes L could see, because then he might understand.

"Never." He sounds reassuring as he can, and even manages to give her the rose with grace and kindness, rather than a sneer she wouldn't be able to see.

"I'm so sorry."

He can see her beginning to slow, her eyes threatening to close even as he watches her. He did not lie to her, the poison is painless. Her death will be quiet and quick, and very clean compared to that of her compatriots.

"I have a question, Delia."

Delia struggles to nod. She would do anything he asked, answer anything he asked, would give him her dying breath, because she knows that whatever it is, it will never be enough to make up for what was done because she made it possible. She thought about killing herself for a long time afterwards, and now he has come to save her from it.

"Do you think what I'm doing is right?"

The dying woman smiles, and reaches out with a trembling hand to brush the cheek of his mask, as a mother might with a child. Only hers is made of porcelain and vengeance, of poison and cruel smiles.

"I think you're going to save us all," is what she says, and then her last breath leaves her.

She, V thinks, has saved him. While he might quake, he cannot stop, because whatever L might think of his purpose, he is no longer a man. He has well and truly become an idea; one that she put her faith into, and Matt too, at least part of the way, and Evey Hammond when she stood on the roof of the building with him, and everyone else in the coming months who's going to speak out against Adam Sutler.

And oh, will their voices be heard. He will take their messages, and he will shout them from the rooftops. Whether or not lofty detectives take them as true or not, the voice of his people will be heard, and parliament will burn.

V is for vendetta, and vengeance, and voice and _victory._

Delia's diary is on her dresser, and because he no longer feels like he has to justify himself, V is capable of admitting that on some level, at least, L has a right to be upset.

If for nothing else, the bruises V left him from the entire part in the closet. They were rather exquisite colours, as V recalls.

It would be a handy thing to leave, as a tool with which to destroy the government from within; but those men who doubt do not any more help with it, and for him it has a most definite use. There are risks entailed, of course, but when aren't there?

He hopes it's worth it.

L glances up at V as he comes into the room, and spares him a nod. Conversation has been sparse, and it has suited him perfectly, but from the looks of the set of V's shoulders, and the way he's approaching, he's betting that silence is about to be breached.

He's right.

"I owe you an apology," V pronounces, and L practically drops his cup of tea in surprise. Of the many things he had expected, perhaps that had been the one thing he did not. There was less than a five percent chance of V apologizing for any of his actions, since someone of his pathology was unlikely to feel that kind of remorse.

Not to mention, unlikely to back it up. He nods, when V offers him the book, and flips it idly open, so he can know just how thankful he's supposed to be.

V finds it _immensely _gratifying when he stumbles back against the counter. L has always been the kind of person to react to shock in a very, very physical way. Finding out that there were Shinigami literally knocked him off his chair, and this is only _marginally _less jaw dropping.

Admittedly, it hasn't redefined his universe, but he never thought it possible.

This is a medical person's diary. It reads like it belongs to the woman in charge of the facility. It looks, to L's expert eye, to be completely authentic. It will have all the evidence he needs to pursue this in the highest courts, unless he is sorely mistaken.

This is _it. _Although Matt, Mello and Near are more than likely to come up with more than enough on their own, if they had not, this would have been his absolute ticket, and V is sure to know that. V has just willingly handed him what he needs to _win, _as an apology.

L looks up at him, and says, as evenly as he can manage;

"Thank you."

He isn't foolish enough to think that this means the game is over. He still needs to make sure that this is what he thinks it is, and not something to sabotage his efforts. He still needs to get out of the Shadow Gallery, and to get this to his employers. _They _need to get to Sutler in time, before V kills him. Undoubtedly, V is going to find some way for Sutler to be killed.

But now, it's just a race, not an obstacle course. They have both reached the other side, and are sprinting, heads down, towards the finish line. V cannot act until the fifth of November. L has until then to find a way out of here.

"Really, V. Thank you."

"I thought it was the least I might do," replies V, "given my misguided attempt to convert you to my way of thinking. Fighting what I am, you would think that I knew better than to try to control a man's thoughts through frightening him. And I called you the hypocrite."

"Yes," L agrees, because he's right, that is what really happened, "but I do understand. I do not agree with you, but I will admit that were I in your situation, I might not act dissimilarly."

This makes V abandon whatever he had been about to say. L cannot see his eyes, but he can tell he is being stared at.

"Which is why I think I am right, too; if I were in your position, I would be no more fit than to make the decisions than you are. But I do not mean to start an argument," he adds, hastily, "my apologies. And my thanks, again."

"We will agree to disagree," V simplifies, inclining his head and backing away. It is a step, but he does not want to push it. L smiles at him and goes back to preparing his second cup of tea.

_On your marks_thinks L, smiling as he dissolves the sugar into the drink. On cube, two cubes, three cubes, four cubes, _get set._

_Go._

[AN: yeah, shortish chapter, but that one was like pulling teeth to write. Which is funny, because the last one had me babbling like a brook.


	16. had a vision

who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out

if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had

a vision to find out Eternity,

_"V?"_

_The masked man pokes his head in from the kitchen, rather surprised at the tone in L's voice. The man is on the couch, staring raptly at the television._

_It seems to be some comedy playing or other, and is that..._

_No. No, it couldn't be._

_"Perhaps you should come watch this?"_

_He'd better._

**Chapter Sixteen**

**June 18****th**

**Batcave**

**London**

"You know," Mello muses, flipping through channels, "this whole idea of watching the news to get information about what's going on is a flawed concept, when you're living in a fascist society."

Big brother has raised the chocolate rations to ten grams less than it was last week.

"He might have a point," agrees Matt, blandly, from the kitchen, and Evey nods.

"Everything they put on television has to go through a censor. All news stories are directly controlled, but if you look at the various anchors you can tell whether they're lying or not with enough practise. See, her, she blinks a lot. And Prothero used to slap his hand on the table when he said a statistic he was making up."

Again, Mello thinks, she has proved the usefulness of having a native in the house, as it were. He picks up the remote control and flips the channel.

"Take me through the tells. What's this guy's story?"

"He reports on what good things the party has accomplished. Reduce any of his statistics by half and expect some of them to be completely fabricated. Want me to put something on for supper?"

"I'll manage," Matt calls, eavesdropping shamelessly, but in an apartment this size, it's to be expected, "you need to keep going over this with Mello. This could be very important, Evey. Is fish and chips alright with people? I ask this like it's a question. We're having fish and chips."

Near is watching the man on the television, listening silently. Computing the stories his telling, and what he's lying about, and why. His eyes narrow when he describes dairy production, but his smile is especially false and glad, and this means something. Dairy production is down, and because... ruined farmlands or disease in the cattle population. Farmland for what? Why wouldn't they want to mention a disease? Is meat more difficult to get now too? It's not mentioned. Is...

Oh, Mello has flipped the channel. It's just a game show, talk show, waste of time show. The opiate of the masses, is what Near privately thinks of it as.

"Hang on. Is that _Chancellor Sutler?_"

Matt sticks his head out of the kitchen again, Mello narrows his eyes, Evey gapes and Near catches a lock of hair to twirl around his fingers. What an interesting development.

"That's Gordon!"

Near presumes she means the man asking the questions. He's rotund and charming, and entirely good natured and silver tongued. He plays the audience perfectly and he's probably going to be dead before the night is up.

"He's... Christ, I nearly _dated _him." Evey's mouth is hanging open in shock, and Near glances over at her, also a little surprised. She's far too pretty.

"He's gayer than Christmas," Mello declares, turning up the volume, "and dead meat. Poor guy. Brave, though. Hey, look, it's Zorro!"

V stands nervously in the orchestra, trying to inconspicuously play an instrument, looking clownishly back and forth. The poor, belaboured Chancellor yells 'seize him!' and a yakety-sax style chase scene ensues. It's practically perfect.

"Evey," Matt asks, "is this shot live?"

Mello glances up at him sharply, and he shrugs. It'd be risky as all get out, but they can at least consider the option, can't they?

"No. Oh God, they're going to _arrest _him. Gordon, what are you thinking?" She leans in to look at the television set, biting her fingernails, eyes wide. Onscreen, the Chancellors (both of them) are shot. This is making matters worse, not better.

"I'll go," Mello says, climbing to his feet, because otherwise Matt will want to, and that's far too risky to be allowed. His face is still plastered in police stations across the country, and Mello stands a much better chance of making it there anonymously. "Jesus Christ, Evey, don't you have any normal friends? I'll fucking go."

"Fish and chips'll be done by the time you're back," Matt declares, disappearing into the kitchen, "I'll keep some warm for you." Christ, Mello has a weird boyfriend sometimes. Even Near is rolling his eyes, but making no move to stop him leaving. Evey is just looking confused by the whole thing. Mello decides Near can be the one to explain it to her.

Ten minutes later, having broken at least as many laws, Mello pulls up on his motorbike in front of the address Evey gave him, and rings the doorbell politely instead of breaking and entering. He wants the man to come with him, not to clock him over the head with a tire iron. Not that he looks all that frightening, but if he's crazy enough to air what he just did on public television then all bets are off.

"Hi," he says, with a small grin, as the man, Gordon, answers the door, "I'm Mello. Pretend I'm a prostitute or a Jehovas Witness or whatever the hell comes door to door in this godforsaken fucking country and let me in before I attract too much attention out here, okay?"

He's wearing a leather vest and black pants and a leather jacket and he looks like he belongs on another world from this sweet little avenue with all the charming hedges and charming shingles and charming garden gnomes.

"Deitrich, isn't it? Gordon. I'm a friend of Evey Hammond's."

"Well," says the gentleman, backing out of the doorway, "I'm not sure that being acquainted with a person I happen to know who is currently a wanted terrorist is a selling point, in most people's books, but Mello's an interesting name. Is it French?"

Mello crosses through the threshold, shoulders sagging noticeably in relief. Gordon looks him up and down and smiles.

"Vive la revolution," Gordon offers, amiably. His accent is piss poor, but Mello grins anyways.

"Indeed."

Ten minutes after that, he's still trying to fend off offers of wine. He was right about the gayer than Christmas thing. Deitrich has not hit on him outright, but his eyes are wandering. Flattered though Mello would usually be, they do not really have the time.

"You're aware of the fucking political climate," he puts both hands flat on the table, "and you're not an idiot. They'll panic. They'll snuff out the dissenting voice. And it's not like you're not already walking a fine line..."

Deitrich's lazy eyes don't betray a damned thing. Mello had forgotten how disconcerting it was to argue with actors, they're always more composed than you are. Also, they tend to be phenomenal liars.

"Mello, I know full well what it is I'm doing."

He wouldn't have expected that note of steel to be lurking there, underneath the posh softness, the good taste in wine and slightly too good taste in food, and gentle old age. Gordon Deitrich is joining the very short list of people that Mello doesn't want to have to argue with.

"Alright," Mello agrees, "look at it this way. You spend the night at our place. You get to see Evey. She's lonely as hell, a lot of the time, me and my colleagues, we're not exactly social butterflies. She'll be happy. Matt's making fish and chips, and he's probably going to set the oven on fire but we'll figure out something to eat. I have a backpack, you can bring the wine. We'll have dinner and toast your tv show. You get to meet my crazy hacker boyfriend and our psychotic genius jailbait American coworker. We tell some jokes, have some laughs. I drive you back here in the morning. If your house _isn't _crawling with police and your neighbours haven't been dragged off for questioning, you go back to it. No harm, no foul."

Gordon's eyes have widened. Mello thinks it happened around the part where he said 'boyfriend.' Maybe before that, maybe just at his tone; frustration, and genuine fear.

"What could it hurt?" Mello asks, coaxingly. He wishes he had let Matt come after all. Deitrich would have been all over him like white on rice, and all Matt ever had to do was say 'please' to get his way. Speaking of which, that's something to try.

"Please?"

"Alright," says Deitrich, instantly, and Mello practically swallows his tongue in surprise. Well. Apparently Matt knew what he was doing about some things. Another weapon to add to the arsenal. Politeness.

"You get what you'll need for the night. I'll set up your doors so we'll be able to tell if the house has been searched. I want us out of here in less than five minutes, or I'm going to shoot you."

Gordon manages to bite back a comment about how that would rather defeat the purpose of saving him, but thinks this Mello person has a rather feral look to him, and that anyways, if the descent of police officers does occur then he'd like to not be caught in the middle of the ensuing farrago. Just a thought, but survival has been good to him so far, and he can see himself continuing with it.

He packs modestly, locking the door to his basement room very carefully, and follows his visitor out through the garden, to where the bike is pulled up. He has to arch his eyebrows at the sight of the thing.

"This is practically an adventure story. What a sorry protagonist I make."

"Don't we all," Mello agrees, sliding onto the thing and pulling on his helmet. He doesn't have one to offer Gordon, sadly, but possible death in a bike accident is better than certain death in a police raid. "Hop on. Put your arms around me and hold tight, I'm not breakable or shy."

Deitrich does, gingerly at first, but when Mello takes off his arms tighten. So he's not entirely suicidal, after all.

As they turn around the corner, Gordon looks back over his shoulder and sees the dark car pulling up to his house. He has to swallow. He also, more difficult, has to admit that he might have entirely underestimated the situation.

No one follows them to the batcave, (they've all taken to calling it that, except Near) Mello is sure of it, and takes the most roundabout route that he has the patience to navigate. Once the bike is safely parked in the garage, he pulls off his helmet and digs in his jacket pocket for his keys.

Finally, his heart rate is beginning to slow a little. There's something about going out at night in this country that just makes his hair stand on end. Hopefully, when they're done, all that will change. Hell, maybe he'll even stay. Open a night club. Or rather, be the bouncer for Matt's night club, because Matt would get more of a kick out of the numbers and shit than he would. That could be fun.

"Honey, I'm home," he calls, voice dripping with sarcasm, and takes Gordon's coat from him to throw on a hanger in the closet. "Go on up. Evey should be in the living room."

The difficult television personality climbs the stairs slowly, as though he's a great explorer, venturing into the unknown. Which, Matt supposes, he is.

"Gordon!" Evey cries, and leaps up to hug him as soon as he enters the room. Near doesn't even look up from the computer screen. "What were you thinking? You could have been killed. Near's looking through the bug Mello planted, they're already in your house."

Mello, coming up behind them, watches Deitrich freeze in surprise. Mello may have forgotten to mention the little video cameras he was hiding. Near is systematically triggering self destruct mechanisms, before the police can find them and trace them back here.

"I _fucking _told you so," he snaps, and walks off to see how Matt's making out with the cooking. Nothing, apparently, has been set on fire. This improves Mello's mood somewhat, because he's very, very hungry all of a sudden, and the fish and chips smell very, very good coming out of the oven

"Set the table," Matt instructs him, looking frankly hilarious in badass pants and a stripey sweater and fuzzy vest and huge ovenmitts that L brought along that have pink hearts on them. He's looking at them with displeasure, so Mello knows commenting on it might result in having fish flung at him.

While that wouldn't frighten him normally, he's incredibly hungry, and in order to save the fish he is capable of shutting the hell up and setting the table.

But just this once.

Supper is a congenial affair. Evey is clearly intimidated by Deitrich, but enough so that it makes her laugh a little bit louder at all of his jokes. Deitrich is clearly charmed by Near, who is at least willing to answer his persistent, wondering questions. Matt thinks Deitrich is hilarity personified, and the two banter easily and quickly. It's a little bit like watching professional pingpong, actually.

Mello just eats his fish quietly and listens.

"And you're really eighteen?" Gordon asks Near, curiously.

"Yes," replies Near, "do I seem younger?"

"You look younger and act older," Gordon replies, "it's a very odd contrast."

"And one women would pay a lot of money for, Near. Maybe we should sell you to a cosmetician and see what we could get for you," Matt suggests, dipping a chip into the ketchup.

"Please don't," Near says, sounding just alarmed enough to be childish, and to fool Evey into reassuring him immediately, though Matt and Mello just smirk and Deitrich watches.

But.

In the morning, there is no sign of Gordon Deitrich but a note on the table, under what Mello recognizes as a very, very fine bottle of wine.

_My dear hosts, and Evey most especially,_

_I am not a brave person, and I am not a worthy protagonist, but for once I have made my bed and now I think I would like to lie in it._

_Thank you for your kind offer, but I'll return to my home and see what exactly my government has in store for me. Unpleasant though it will undoubtedly be, it will also be undoubtedly public. If they are going to declare war against this old comedian, they will have to do it for all of London to see._

_People should know what lengths their government is willing to go to in order to silence them._

_Any man who cannot laugh at himself is the greatest of fools, and I think they will find that the joke is again, on them._

_Best of luck, _

_Gordon Deitrich _

_(no doubt the late, haha)_

At least, Mello thinks, watching the footage a little bit numbly on the television this afternoon as Evey sobs into his shoulder, he went out with a bang. There are images of the riot all over the news, and none of them will say what sparked it, but he thinks he knows the answer.

"Funny guy," is all Matt says, on his way past to the kitchen. Evey sobs harder and Near stares at the screen with a tiny, tiny smile. It reminds V of Gordon's, and his quiet 'vive la revolution.' Well, he got his wish, it seems.

The revolution is on it's way.

[AN: woot, it's a snow day here, people. Classes are cancelled. You'd think, being that it's Canada, we'd be used to getting huge amounts of snow... but in all fairness, campus is on top of a mountain. Either way, far be it for me to look a gift horse in the mouth. I'll just rejoice, and waste my spare time finishing this fucker up!


	17. on their knees

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying

for each other's salvation and light and breasts,

until the soul illuminated its hair for a second

_"I can't stay cooped up in here all the time, Near."_

_"I know Evey," he twirls a lock of hair between his fingers, "But it still isn't safe. I'm sorry."_

_He only flinches slightly as she slams the door on her way out._

**Chapter Seventeen**

**August 30****th**

**The Shadow Gallery**

**London**

Since watching Gordon Deitrich die for V's cause on public television, L has become a little bit less dismissive of the need for a revolution.

A very little bit, but it's something.

They're both still walking on eggshells around each other anyways. V is nervous that he'll do something to set L off, and L is edgy for the same reasons, and while they eat together and talk Blake and Keats and Elliott and whether the world ends with a bang or with a whimper, they usually avoid the topic of 'work.' It's sort of pedestrian, really.

L has never had experience having to guard his tongue for information he _wants _to share. As an impersonal person, he never really had any great impulse to talk about the childhood that could only really be described as either eventful or disastrous. Although if he says so himself, it did have a nice ending.

What he's seen of it so far, anyways.

Anyways, since things are settling into this pseudo rhythm, L decides it's time to do what he does best. Namely to stir the situation up some; to start the chain of dominoes falling, you need to be willing to hit the first one, after all. V's domino chain has been knocking down for months and months now, possibly years.

Time to put a kink in the works.

"V?" he asks, one evening, glancing through the titles of the films V has set aside. Given their placement in relation to V's height, he's prepared to bet that the Count of Monte Cristo is the most watched among them. He doesn't say so, because he's trying to appear harmless, and a harmless person cannot look at your video selection and guess which one is the top choice?

"Yes?" L has noticed recently that he's always the one to begin conversations. Perhaps that's a fair distance to grant his host, and possibly even for the best. He's not usually pleasant when interrupted while working.

"Would you like to watch a movie tonight?"

V is suddenly behind him. He moves damnably silently, and L looks over his shoulder, trying not to appear uncomfortable with how quickly he managed to approach.

"I've never seen the Count of Monte Cristo. I've read it, of course, but films are not something I have much experience with."

V's chest swells slightly, and he laughs, and it sounds purely delighted. In many ways, the man is a child. A sophisticated child, L will admit, but he only has a few years memory and limited social interactions and even more limited sources of things like positive influences and discipline. It is as endearing as it is dangerous.

It is a trait he recognizes within himself. They share some immaturities, he is forced to admit. While V puts the movie on, L excuses himself to procure something containing sugar to devour, while watching. Returning with a bowl of sugared cereal, far from his first choice, but the simplest at the moment, he installs himself on the couch in his most comfortable position. With one hand lingering for balance, he rests the bowl on his knees, and settles back to watch the film.

It's an acceptable story, if predictable, and the alterations to the plot for the sake of the film make it a little more trite, but still bearable. His chief source of entertainment throughout is V's efforts at controlling himself. The man obviously fights the urge to say every line along with his favourite character, and L thinks perhaps he has found one of the people that V did model himself after.

Perhaps also, he thinks, with some amusement, if someone had given him 'Ghandi' instead of this, then parliament might not be on the verge of exploding.

"His persistent attachment to Mercedes seems illogical," he offers, tentatively, pressing his thumb to his lips as the movie ends, "if he were serious about completing his revenge. In any matter, the likelihood that she would still have the personality of the person he fell in love with, after living without him for years and entering into a relationship with his enemy, is very slim. But despite this flaw it was a thoroughly enjoyable film."

"It's my very favourite," V announces, and yes, L did know that. The credits stop and the news comes on, and it's a story about recent vandalism in the city; a picture of a party poster with a V spray painted onto it. V makes an approving noise and turns off the television before L can really comment.

"Where did you get the name Ryuuzaki?" V asks, leaning back in his seat while L picks the last few pieces of cereal out of his bowl with his fingers, devouring the survivors.

L didn't know if he'd remember that or not.

"I had adopted the alias Ryuga, and wanted something that was similar enough that people who knew both of them might be able to transfer between them with relative ease." V stays silent, an invitation for him to continue the story. The next obvious question is why he chose Ryuga, but L decides he doesn't want to answer it. He asks a question of his own instead.

"If I win, would you testify in my case?"

V laughs, at the suddenness of the question. So that's what this has been about.

It's the first time he's heard L openly acknowledge that it's between the two of them after all, since his careful insistence months ago that he was not here to cause V any harm, to track him or to slow him down in any way. While it is technically true, that doesn't mean L won't do everything in his power to stop him. Especially not after what happened with the bishop.

He finds the candour sort of refreshing, actually, if he's perfectly honest with himself.

It's a good question. If L takes Sutler into custody before V can kill him... would he be willing to testify? He would have lost, and most importantly, he would be alive.

None of this plan hinges on surviving the coming revolution. The train he's building is going to be his death pyre, if things go his way. However, with the world's best detective working his hardest to stop him, he is forced to admit that there is at least some chance of his plans being derailed.

What was it that Delia said about suicide? It didn't seem fair.

"I don't know, L."

L knows his expression has fallen a little, but he can't help it. First hand testimony is all he short of at this point, and V's would be exceptional. Not to mention emotionally satisfying in the extreme. He is trying not to be resentful of the months he's wasted here, but it's been almost ten months, and that's a lot of criminals he could have stopped, elsewhere. A lot of deaths that he might have had a chance to prevent.

"What in particular is dissuading you?" he asks, hoping to make the man admit to the sin of pride, at least, if nothing else. It is an argument he is certain he could win.

Whether or not V would make good on the promise is another matter.

"I highly doubt," the terrorist's voice strikes a dry note, that L thinks is probably covering something he'd rather not reveal. He cannot tell what, which is frustrating in the extreme, "that they would accept testimony from a man in a mask, and unless the hearing is in camera, or there is a publication ban, both _highly unlikely..._"

L is drawn up a little bit short. He hardly expected there to be reasonable objections, but he imagines he too would be uncomfortable revealing his face to the world at large, and his isn't even particularly distinctive.

"You're right. That was an inappropriate request. I merely value your knowledge and perspective on the situation, and think your voice would be a valuable addition to the case we are building."

Over the months, L has continued his correspondences with his three accomplices. While V has read the correspondences going both ways, this has not stopped them from communicating rather easily. The problem with geniuses is that they're very good at getting what they want.

L doubts even he would be able to stop Near and Mello, at their most determined. This is possibly because they both have ruthless streaks that put his to shame, though Near's is far more subtly manipulative than Mello's. Matt, he could possibly handle, but that's because Matt has a more developed social conscience.

Only by a very slim margin, but a slim margin is sometimes all it takes. In any matter, he's secure in the knowledge it won't ever become an issue.

But speaking of a lack of conscience, he still needs to find some way to secure V's participation in his case, no matter what he might have established as his 'comfort zone.'

The way to do this is to use a combination of guilt and 'peer pressure' as it were, to begin to broaden the comfort zone as much as possible. Which will be useful in other ways, of course, because it might garner him an advantage all by itself.

"I wonder... no." It's a transparent strategy, playing off his curiosity, but in L's experience, always an effective one.

"L." V does not, in fact, sound over impressed. Far from, in fact. His tone seems to suggest that if L is going to waste his time he is going to leave, and probably to continue his work on explosives.

It would actually, it occurs to him, not be too difficult to look at a list of people interred at Larkhill, and come up with someone of the right height with a high IQ and a proficiency with explosives and a fondness for literature. But somehow he feels that that would be _wrong._

As wrong as what he's about to do? Well, it would at least be senseless, while this is... senseless, too, yes, in a way, but he feels compelled to ask.

"Photographs of what the infection did to your skin might also serve the purpose."

He feels the glare from behind the mask, even though he can't see V's eyes.

"Useless," oh, that isn't a _no, _"this is scarring from the fire I started that destroyed the facility. I did not really expect to escape alive..."

"But even then, you wanted to kill them all," L finishes for him, eyes narrowing. "How did you start manage it?"

"As the only subject left alive," L remembers the words 'my first batch' in the journal, and nearly scowls, but schools his features, keeps still and listens, "I was under intense surveillance and being studied at all times. When there began to be neurological side effects, Prothero was very curious."

L knows that he's talking about the amnesia. But maybe other things, too, after all, the man has been killing people for years and is in the progress of hatching a plan to destroy parliament.

"When I began asking for things, for chemicals and the like, he gave them to me, probably to see what I'd do with them, more than anything else, and in his own cocky manner, neglecting to consult a scientist to find out what might be created when I began making my concoctions."

L would never be so foolish, but he is not surprised that Prothero was, not in the slightest.

"The fire was easy to start, and it spread quickly. The burns are fairly uniform, but not unremarkable, despite their severity. I could have acquired them in any fire."

"I'm sorry," L finds himself possessed to say, though he isn't sure why or for what, or what he thinks apologizing might do. It wasn't _him _or _his _fault, but he is inexplicably suddenly very, very sorry. The rush of empathy is unusual, and mostly unwelcome. He is glad that V bears it quietly, without feeling pressed to comment, to call him on it.

There's a very long silence, that isn't precisely comfortable, but is necessary and comes with a sort of satisfaction. Sort of like cracking knuckles

"I have news from Matt," V says, "he'll be coming to visit. Probably a month from now. He needs you for something."

L wants to ask 'Why didn't you say?' but settles for nodding, instead. Neither of their behaviour has been exemplary tonight, so it seems. "Why in a month?"

"Because," V replies, "although the task is unavoidable, you're going to have to leave here to accomplish it. And since the situation you're remedying is my fault to begin with, I feel as though I have no right to disagree."

L feels his eyes widening, and knows that the shock is betrayed on his face. He's going to be out of here in... September, the end of September He has no idea why, but it gives him one month of unhampered movement to find a way to beat V.

One month is a very, very short time. The terrorist is right to delay. But he is again underestimating the fact that he is _L. _He is _justice._

He has been set back, but he is far from beaten.

"Did he say why he needed me?"

V climbs to his feet, with a genteel little shrug.

"I'll only tell you that it has to do with Miss Hammond. Goodnight, L, I'm glad you enjoyed the film."

Leaving L alone, in the living room, to consider his options.

One month.

Just one.

He hopes it's do-able.


	18. blues to Alcatraz

who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for

impossible criminals with golden heads and the

charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet

blues to Alcatraz,

_Creedy is watering his orchids when the knife slides against his throat, and Beethoven cues up on the speaker system._

_...—_

_V argues his case with the eloquence of fact and steel, and all Creedy can think is how very much like the strange boy in the stupid hat he is, and if only he had been taller then he might have suspected that he'd found the masked man's identity._

_The chalk V leaves in his hand is white, too._

**Chapter Eighteen**

**September**** 3****0****th**

**The Shadow Gallery**

**London**

"L!"

L has changed some, Matt notices. It's been nearly a full year, and it's nothing big, but he can't help but feel there are differences. L stands with his back a little straighter. He keeps his elbows tighter to his sides. He looks at everything that moves with an obsessive kind of awareness, rather than a lazy, bored one.

He looks like he's ready for the fight. Because hell, is it going to be a fight. One month and five days is all they have.

V looks exactly the same, but then, V is a man in a mask with a cloak and a wig, so Matt saw that one coming. He ignores V and grabs L in a tight hug, also ignoring L's startled, faintly irritable sound of protest.

Mello, from the front seat of the car, rolls down the window and shouts, "Kiss Zorro goodbye and get moving, guys."

"We don't have a lot of time," Matt admits, standing back, and grabbing his bag for him. "Later, V. L, I'll explain in the car."

"So you want Evey out of the country?" L muses, chewing on his thumb as he settles into the computer chair, "and why couldn't you do this on your own?"

"Because," Mello explains, "Aiber is the only one who's willing to risk it, and he's not going to do it without your say so, _and _he's leaving for a racket in Tunesia of all things in two days. So we've got to do this now. Near tried to pretend to be you, but he'd seen you, I guess, and that just made him _more _suspicious so we've really, really got to make this happen."

L is already typing in contact numbers, and pulling up programs. Contact, Aiber. Contact, the World Court. Whoever answers first gets to have the first conversation.

"And why is it so urgent?" He glances over at Mello. Odds are, there was a confrontation, and if that's the case, then it was most likely something to do with Mello. Matt didn't offend easily, and Near could bite his tongue.

The irritated look he gets lets him know he was wrong.

"Near." Mello shrugs. "She's being a bitch to him."

L's eyebrows shoot up.

"What Mello means," Matt explains, more gently, "is that Evey is a very nice woman, who isn't used to ruthlessness and who expected us to do a little more in the saving people's lives department. After Gordon's death, she was just shook up enough to figure out that we weren't really... well, she decided we were heartless. I mean, fair enough, but Near being Near never really managed to dissuade her of it."

"And," Mello continues, stepping in over Matt, "he is a cold little fucker. Don't glare at me, you know it's true. But anyways, she clued into this, and they'd been kind of..."

"Friends?" Matt ventures, very tentatively. The idea of Near having friends with IQ's at sub-genius levels was a little bit strange, to Near more than any of them, probably. And just when he had gotten used to it, he'd been hit with a wash of hostility that he wasn't equipped to deal with.

"It's decreasing his efficiency." Mello thinks that's the very best way to put it. "We need the cu— Jesus, Matt, whatever. We need her out of here, we can't afford this. And Matt says I can't just shoot her." L is fairly sure Mello is making a joke, but then, all of them are the tiniest bit protective of Near, sometimes. Even if Mello is also the most cutting, and there is still slivers of the childhood animosity that occasionally jab out, unexpectedly.

"And since it was V's fault that she could not simply head into the streets," L concludes, quietly, "you decided to take the opportunity to try to get me back. There was only a very, very slim chance of that ploy being effective."

"Near said seven percent," admits Matt, agreeably, "but whatever, don't knock it, you're here."

Which is a very valid point, and a difficult one to argue with.

"Aiber." The con-man flashes up onto the screen, and his eyes widen when he sees L there. "Matt, Mello and Near are very close friends of mine, and have every right to act in my stead. Although I appreciate your caution, it is not needed when it comes to them. Now, I have a passenger for you to pick up..."

"What?" L snaps, absolutely fuming, "I don't think you appreciate the importance of this. If you do not act immediately, I have every reason to believe Chancellor Sutler will be murdered. He will never stand trial."

"And everyone wins," the man on the other end of the computer says, carefully, "L, we appreciate your help, but if natural actions within the country are going to lead to-"

"These are not natural actions," L objects, forcefully, "this is the specific vendetta of one person. It would make the research we have spent the past ten months doing worthless."

"And it would save us the multiple year effort that the hearing would be. We're not saying stop looking, we're just not going to-"

_Bastards. _Bureaucratic, unjust, unintelligent _bastards. _L completely loses his temper and cuts off the connection without another word. This disgusts him.

"Well," Near sighs, sliding into the chair next to him, "welcome back."

L glances up at him and checks him over for any obvious signs of fatigue or sickness. He might be a little paler than when they last spoke, and his eyes are a little more shadowed. From the looks of his expression, he has been dealing with this political rigmarole the whole way through.

Thinking of the Kira investigation and the unsurpassed cowardice displayed, L can certainly sympathize.

"I read your compilation," he says, by way of hello, "you have surpassed my expectations."

"How do we stop it?" Near asks, and oh, he understands too then, does he?

If only L knew.

"Is Near coming with us to the helicopter?" Evey asks nervously, as she comes into the room. Matt is carrying her bag for her. She hasn't amassed much, living with them. Some clothes, a toothbrush. But they'll take care of her at Wammy's, they're all sure of it.

"No," says Matt, at the exact same moment as Near answers "yes." She looks between them, and smiles when Matt shrugs and Near nods. She doesn't realize what she's been doing, L assumes, and Near knows that and isn't holding it against her. He doesn't know what's been happening, but for Mello and Matt to be this concerned, it must have been costly, to say the least.

"We had best go now," L says, climbing to his feet. If any of them is surprised that he's coming too, only Mello shows it, with a faint frown. But he's just been back a few hours, none of them are exactly going to argue with him. "Do we have a car?"

"I'll say goodbye now, Evey," Matt offers, graciously, tossing the bag at Mello and leaning over to give her a tight hug, "be seeing you in a few months, alright?"

She hugs him tightly enough in return that L is able to discern that they were friends. Probably fairly good ones. What is he going to do about V?

The car ride is quiet. He rides in the passenger seat and Near curls up against the door, tracing patterns in the condensation on the window. Mello drives like a bat out of hell and Evey tries not to cry. He isn't sure why he's so emotional. It reminds him a little of Valerie, and her soft, mournful eyes. What is he going to do about V?

The four of them wait on the hilltop, car parked nearby. L stands, slouched, talking quietly with Mello about facts and death tolls and bone fragments and tax records. Near waits, holding Evey's bag for her, looking calm and quiet.

She knows him well enough to murmur, "I'll see you in a couple of months, you know," but not well enough to know that he'd rather she just pretended she couldn't tell.

"You will stay at Wammy's the first few days," he supplies, quietly, "and they will take whatever care of you that you need. If you like, you will probably be allowed to stay on, since there is a considerable language barrier." She nods, and listens and wonders if she'll have to learn Japanese or if she'll ever see England again.

It doesn't particularly matter to her. There's not a look keeping her here.

"The orphans will all speak English, and for as long as you need haven, the staff will probably be glad of the help with the children."

Near knows her well enough to know that unless she's being some kind of help, she won't be able to take charity of any major sort.

Aiber lands the helicopter with ease, and hops out of the pilot's seat. L knows his hair must be even more than a mess than usual, Evey is trying to hold hers back and Mello looks like an irritated dandelion. Near glances away when Aiber tries to make eye contact with him.

"Now, now, Master Near," Aiber says, with a smile, "no hard feelings. I caught you out, but we'll both know better next time. Hello, L."

"Aiber," L agrees, biting the pad of his thumb to catch a smile, "It's good to see you again. But hurry."

"Ah, oui. You must be Miss Evey?" He takes the bag Near offers him and smiles charmingly at her. "You must be nervous? But do not be. I have not died yet, and do not plan to. We will get you out of here safely, and within a week, you will be in Japan and complaining about the food."

It's a weak joke, but she's nervous enough that she laughs anyways and looks sideways at Near. Near is looking at his feet, his hands are in his pockets. He looks rather a lot like L, like that.

"I'll see you later, Near," and she follows Aiber into the chopper. They stand and watch outside, as she puts on ear protectors, and settles into the passenger seat. As it lifts up, her waving. As it clears over the nearest hilltop.

"Were you interested in her sexually?" L asks Near, looking over. Near keeps watching the place where the chopper disappears, and Mello accidentally inhales his own spit in shock and has a coughing fit.

"No," replies Near, eventually, "I don't think so."

"Fuck it, this is too weird," announces Mello, as he turns around to head down the hill to turn the car on. He does not have it in him right now to try to understand L and Near talking about women. The conversation ends there, anyways, because there's not really all that much to say.

But what is L going to do about V?

On the way back, he drums his fingers on the door until Mello's twitching every time he does. He goes over facts and figures with Near until he knows them by heart. He thinks of every possible way they might conduct a citizen's arrest on Adam Sutler, and get away with it without one of them dying.

If the day in Bishop Lilliman's chambers taught him anything, it is that he does not want to die. And from seeing Matt and Mello and Near again, that he does not want to put them at risk in any way, shape or form.

But he cannot let V kill Chancellor Sutler.

"I want the three of you to search for every opportunity you can to abduct Sutler safely. I want him out of the country as fast as humanly possible, provided that you don't inform him of what's going on. Brace yourself, it will all happen on November fifth."

He sits up straight.

"And turn left here, Mello."

Mello glances at him, shocked and worried, and nearly takes out an old woman crossing the street because he isn't looking.

"You're going back," he says, not asking, because it's obvious isn't it.

L just smiles.

He doesn't have a choice.


	19. occupational therapy pingpong

who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp

notism & were left with their insanity & their

hands & a hung jury,

and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin

Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psycho-

therapy occupational therapy pingpong &

amnesia,

who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic

pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,

_"He went back? Is he fucking crazy?"_

_Mello moves, because Mello always moves when he's angry and Mello's always angry when he's frightened._

_"We're not going to be able to stop this."_

_Near privately agrees, but doesn't say. __Because that'd be giving them permission to not try._

**Chapter Nineteen**

**October 31****st**

**The Shadow Gallery**

**London**

"V?"

"Yes L?" V's voice is barely patient, and weary sounding. It has been a month of arguments, of ethics, of frustration and fighting.

"Do we keep cocoa powder about somewhere?"

And apparently, it's going to be a day of domesticity. L has not forgotten how close they are to the edge of the precipice; how could he?

"It's my birthday. Would you like to help me make a cake?"

V glances up from the book he's reading, and L can read disbelief in his posture. He supposes it is a strange request, after all, after a month of 'don't kill Sutler,' and 'why did you come back?' and 'you're wrong.' But it's his birthday and he wants there to be cake.

"I was thinking of taking an evening walk," V says, casually, and L supposes this is the one day of the year where he _can _do such a thing, "but my tradition should probably be discontinued in the interest of safety. My borrowed face is a well known one, my anonymity is sacrificed."

"The obvious solution," L suggests, "is to wear a different mask. _After _we make my cake."

"Alright, yes," agrees, climbing to his feet. After they make L's cake.

Thanks to Matt, L knows how to make decadent chocolate cake, and thanks to his own temperament and need for precision, it works out very well every single time. Cooking is only an elaborate form of chemistry, and chemistry is only another kind of science, and L excels at such disciplines. V does too. The man is, after all, a bomb maker.

Once they have found the cocoa, the milk and eggs, they're all measured with companionable precision.

"A government should not be allowed to take any action an individual cannot," V says, as he checks to see if the oven is preheated, yet. L pours the cake batter into the pan, on top of the crumble base of the cake, listening closely, "and if capital punishment is meted out by the prime minister, and by the justices of courts, than so should it be available to any citizen."

"By the democratically elected prime minister," L replies, swiping a finger through the batter and licking it, regardless of the risk the raw egg poses. It is a worthwhile gamble.

"Judges are not democratically elected, they're appointed."

"Again, appointed _by _democratically elected officials," L replies, and regrets eating the batter. If he becomes ill over the next four days then he will be in no shape to argue with whatever it is V does. He needs to be at the top of his game.

V is the one to drop the argument this time, but then, he usually is. Given his position, he does not need to be the one to win these arguments.

L has no bargaining power, and stands to lose everything.

Well, no, not everything. He stands to lose the game. And to L, this is the same thing.

The cake goes into the oven, and L glances at the clock. He does not set the timer, and V does not ask if he wants to. He will know when the cake needs to come out. In the mean time, he follows V, who has left the kitchen and is walking out into the main room of the gallery.

"Do you fence, L?" V asks, picking up a sword from a stand, that L had always assumed was for decoration. V has been more cautious than to engage in fencing with imaginary foes with the detective around. While not hostile, any longer, things are not unguarded, and he knows that L is categorizing his every weakness.

"Sometimes," L admits. V flips the sword, grasping it by the tip, and offers it out to him, handle first. He takes it cautiously, and from his posture you would think he had never fenced before. But to V, the grip of his hand on the handle betrays more knowledge than that. He is practised.

Of course, V isn't surprised. It would be odd to find something L could not do. The only things he knows, and it has nearly been a whole year, are picking locks, making toast, and keeping small talk casual.

Ah well, the man is a genius, after all.

V picks up another sword, and L raises his blade, with a smile.

"En garde?"

How very exhilarating. V raises his blade too, nods once, and attacks.

It's very short. Their blades clash three times- thrust parry, thrust parry, thrust parry- and then L is backing away, eyes wide and smile bright and rather dangerous. Probably more dangerous than he means it to be, V knows.

"You are wearing armour and I am not," the detective observes, and V knows that this means it is up to him to not hurt, to not thrust too hard, to not break the skin. L will not be able to kill him, probably even to scratch him, with a fencing foil. That they're fighting physically at all is ludicrous, given differences in size, strength, and reach.

But still, V will not hurt him, so it's alright. Taunt him, certainly.

"While you have your intellect, L, I have my plans and my blades. In not all cases can you triumph."

Attack, parry. L's feet move into the proper position. He does know what he's doing, after all.

"You mean with Chancellor Sutler." Yes, L, he means with Chancellor Sutler. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to have Creedy kill him," V snaps, incautiously and moving forwards sharply. L has to duck around the piano or be backed into it. For a moment his back is to V, vulnerable, and V doesn't reach for it, following slowly instead, "he will fall in a web of his own making."

"And I thought _I _suffered from Stockholm Syndrome," L observes, his long fingers trailing down the piano keys in a glissade as he tries to get on the other side of it from V. He isn't fast enough, V attacks, and the tip of his sword presses against L's shoulder. Just presses, not bruising or cutting, controlled and decisive and retreating almost immediately. "You are becoming the accessory to murder for the man who did this to you to begin with."

He's lucky he says this after V's sword touches him, otherwise there _might _have been blood.

"Stockholm syndrome?" Amused, harsh, a little wary. V's fingers trace a more deliberate pattern on the piano keys. L retreats further, and for the moment V does not follow.

"I think it's apt," L keeps his tone flawlessly pleasant. He knows it's an unkind thing to say.

"You're probably right." V is approaching again, sword out, and L can't tell if he's angry. He thrusts, and L parries quickly and thrusts back, and is afraid, once again, of losing. Now that he knows V's plan, it might be in his best interests for him to kill L.

"I could tell Matt to detain Creedy," he says, reckless and breathless, fending off V's sword with difficulty. L is very good, but V is better.

"I could cut your throat," V answers, in a much calmer tone, and L knows he is being toyed with.

"Ah," he replies, gasps, really. V's blade knocks his aside and connects with his side, and that _will _bruise, he's sure of it, "but you want me to see you're triumph. You want me to see that you're right."

"Yes," V's sword catches his arm this time, just as hard, and L doesn't give in to the impulse to flinch, "I do." It's a little shocking to hear what he knows, admitted so boldly.

"It'll be like with Lilliman."

V's sword is suddenly at his throat. L only partially regrets crossing the line they had drawn; they were not mentioning what happened with the bishop.

"No," replies V, with conviction, "it won't be. This time I'll gag you."

L is brave enough to admit that the idea is frightening. He wonders why it's so easy to forget that V is a fanatic, why he only seems to remember it when he has something sharp pressed against his neck. You would think the mad mask would be enough. But it isn't.

"Is it really your birthday?" V asks him, keeping him at sword point, backing him up to stand against the couch. The question seems distant, somehow. L can't put his finger on it.

"Yes. I'm turning twenty nine." Has it really been four years since Kira? If Light had succeeded in killing him, it would have been on a fifth of November too, wouldn't it? Perhaps he will die this time around. Maybe it's written, somewhere, in a Death Note.

V doesn't know if he thought he was younger or older, but whichever it was it's a surprise. He knows too much to be so young, he acts too young to be so old. That is, if he's even telling the truth. V knows that L occasionally tells lies about simple things.

"Happy birthday." V finally, belatedly, drops his sword point down, leaving L a little bit wide eyed, backed against the sofa. "Shall we see if the cake is done?"

L knows it isn't, but nods anyways.

They sit quietly in the kitchen for a long time. L knows that he will be followed everywhere, from now on, after threatening to set Matt on Creedy. He will probably be locked in his bedroom, when V inevitably has to leave to make last minute preparations, because now he is a serious, tangible risk.

For now, he will pretend it's not coming, and simply enjoy his birthday.

The cake, precisely measured, with devotion a little too clinical to be love, is just as good as the most adored home baked goods. L serves out two slices without thinking, and then looks at the plate, and then up at V's mask.

V, with Light's smile, looks back, or at the cake, or somewhere else entirely, L has no idea. You can forget a lot about V. His fanaticism, and that his face is not his own and that he can never sit and eat cake with you, not even on your birthday.

He probably won't be able to have it, period. He cannot leave L alone, to eat it, and he will not lock him up merely to have a bite of something sweet, and by the time he needs to go out for the night it will have cooled too far and it is right now, delicious and moist and warm and begging to be eaten.

"If..." L looks down at his plate cautiously, "...V, if I turned away, and sat facing the doorway, then you could stay behind me."

What a strange request to make, having come, a moment ago, from fighting in earnest. After having dismissed the year's tentative friendship as an accident of brain chemistry- an inborn need to identify with your captor in an effort to preserve your own life. After admitting that in the last minutes before V's triumph, L will still do anything he can and everything in his power to stop him.

"Alright," says V, and L smiles and offers him a fork, "I would like some cake. It smells enticing."

Because for all that, L will not look. L has no reason to look. L believes that a man is who he chooses to be, not what he is born with, or what others make him. V has chosen to be Guy Fawkes, and L is not going to take that from him.

V is his friend.

L settles into his chair, picking up his plate and turning away, and listens carefully. To the sound of V settling down. The noise his wig makes when it's set on the table. To the catch of the clasps that keep the mask in place around the back of his head being released. The faint click of the heavy object being set on the table. The soft sound of V's gloves coming up, the plate rasping on the table as it's picked up, the metallic noise of the fork.

The faint intake of breath as V tastes the chocolate.

L doesn't look, but he smiles.

"This is a nice way to spend a birthday. We should do it again next year."

V laughs, because V expects to be dead in a few days. L is struck by how different it sounds without the mask between them. His voice is richer, less hollow. Next year, this time, V will probably be dead and L will probably be out of England. Or perhaps dead too, if V is serious about carrying out this plan to bring him along. L thinks he probably is; the bruises from the swordfight seem to attest to it.

He waits, until the sound of V eating stops, until the plate is set down again, and the mask is refastened. Until the scrape of V's chair on the floor is heard, and a gloved hand touches his shoulder.

Then he glances up. The familiar masked face hangs over him.

"Do you still want to go walking?"

"I don't think so," V says, a little bit regretful, and L knows why. He's too much of a risk. V can't allow him to get any sort of message out from this point on. V stares at him for a moment, waiting for him to challenge him, L thinks. Which means again, he's expecting L to behave too much like normal people, like anyone else would in this situation.

L isn't anyone else.

"If you'd like me to retire to my room, I have no objection. It is your night out, as you said."

He thinks the terrorist might be drawn up short, but isn't sure.

"I have no one I'd rather spend it with."

L's turn to be drawn up short. Suddenly, he realizes that there's more than one life he'd like to save by getting his way in things to come.

So, they watch another old black and white movie. One of the Sherlock Holmes's, thanks to V's sense of humour, no doubt, and L continues to eat his made-with-caution birthday cake, and in deference to the tentative peace and the way L winces whenever he reaches for anything with the bruised arm, they don't talk about anything even approaching the political.

When the film is over, L helps with the dishes, drying while V washes, familiar scarred hands inside yellow rubber gloves. L is able to put everything away from memory, without asking, which V shouldn't find as surprising as he does, since he has been living here for a year.

L makes his way silently, and with good grace, to his room. He stands, frozen, as V closes the door behind him and waits.

One second. Two seconds. He isn't breathing, he doesn't think V is either. Five seconds, the faint sound of metal on metal. He draws in air sharply, louder than he meant to.

L sags onto the bed, defeat welling through him.

The lock clicks shut.

The room, the situation, the game; there's no way out.

[AN: Gosh, we're so close to the end! I can't believe this is finally happening. Only a few more chapters guys! Read and review! 3


	20. a sudden flash

and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed

with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use

of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrat-

ing plane

_"Alright. Are you ready Matt?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Mello?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Alright. Go."_

**Chapter ****Twenty**

**November 4****th**

**The Underground**

**London**

"Remember remember the fifth of November," V whispers, as he secures the knots around L's bony wrists a little tighter. They're digging into the skin now, painfully, because V is nervous and over attentive to detail, and in this case paying far closer attention than is actually comfortable. L is biting his lip, too proud to complain.

"The Gunpowder treason and plot." He jerks again, just to be sure, and then curls a hand around L's chin as he gently eases the gag off his mouth. The detective feels his skin crawl, and knows he's shuddering. It's impossible to tell what V is thinking. V's voice turns slightly apologetic as he continues the rhyme. As he leans L back against the grate. Up, on a ledge above where Creedy's men will stand. Out of the line of fire. Able to see everything that occurs.

"I can think of no reason the Gunpowder treason should ever be forgot."

L doesn't want to be here. He told V so repeatedly in the subway car, as it rattled down the tracks on the way here. He told him as much as they climbed the stairs to this room.

"Who else will monitor? Will assure that the proceedings are above ground and fair?" V had asked, rhetorical and a little amused. His mind was long ago made up, L is certain.

"No jury has ever literally had their hands tied," L pointed out, as he was lifted bodily onto the slippery, tiled beam. It might have been some feature of construction, once, while this place was still used. Now it's just his vantage point.

"And if you try to escape, it'll be the rest of you that's tied up, too," V warns, "and it won't even be me that kills you if you make noise around Creedy's men. I won't be able to save you if you let them know you're here, L."

L raises his bound hands, so he can chew on a thumbnail, and sinks down to lean against a pillar. He isn't feeling his steadiest, and this is some height to fall from. V climbs down, with catlike, enviable grace, and moves to stand in the middle of the room.

It is not just in time. They wait another half hour or so before Creedy and his men arrive, carrying someone between them. L cranes his neck to watch, fingers at his mouth, even though he doesn't need to look to know who it will be. He chews harder on his thumb, and the cuticle is already ragged, from the past four days of waiting.

Sutler's gasps and cries fill the room as the bag is yanked off of his head. L lets his breathing go a little. He's been trying to be quiet, but now that the room is filled with noise he can afford to make small sounds, albeit very, very careful ones.

L hears the sound of a gun being cocked, and V, oh so casually, murmuring 'not yet.'

V walks forwards, and looks down at Sutler, pathetic and on his knees, and with blood trickling down his lined face. He tucks a rose into the man's jacket, as he begs and pleads, and looks up without turning his face that way. L is looking away, wide eyed and determined, like he's trying to pretend he isn't frightened

L flinches hard, V's still watching him, as the Chancellor's body hits the floor. He tears his eyes away, backing up as Creedy starts to laugh.

"Now," he says, raising his gun, "let's see what you've got under your mask."

V watches L lean back, relief etched starkly on his features, and smiles behind his smile. He only has to live past the first salvo of bullets. He just has to survive long enough to kill Sutler, and to make it back to his train, and then to ride it to destruction. An hour, at most, before his suffering is over.

"No."

L isn't surprised when the first gun goes off. He's just surprised at how very man of them there are. How long it goes on. The noises they make as they hit metal, hit concrete, hit V. He's surprised, waiting for the thump of a body hitting the floor, that it never comes. He ways waiting for the death.

It comes, but it isn't V's body that hits the ground.

L inspects the ceiling tiles. Calculating how many of them there are in the room takes a matter of seconds. He estimates their thickness, length, perimeter, width, and consequentially the surface area of the ceiling. Someone underneath him screams. He moves on to qualitative observations. The sound of knife being buried in flesh is difficult to block out. The sound of someone's spine being snapped sends a little shock through him. The tiles were once white but are now grey and mildew. He can see where there's water leaking through.

He concentrates on the patterns the water is making.

The first time L met Near, it was looking at rain streaming down window panes. Night time thunderstorms and little-boy terror. They sat, and L explained to the four year old the atmospheric phenomenon of thunder, while they drank hot chocolate and Near listened with wide, radiant eyes. That was in the fall, too. Some time in November.

Maybe even the fifth. Who knows?

Beneath him, it's almost silent now. All there is, is the sound of V's low, cultured voice. Hissing words that L can't seem to understand for some reason. And that's Creedy's voice, that's rasping and breaking, and now gagging and choking. Death is starkly unpleasant to overhear, is what L has learned this year.

Creedy, the man behind nearly all of this, is the mastermind who planted the virus. Creedy is Chancellor Sutler's right hand man, and consequentially, the one who did the most of the dirty work.

L listens to V choke the life out of him, and tries very, very hard to be sorry.

He feels nothing.

V has won.

The sound Creedy's body makes when it slides down the wall and hits the floor fills him with nothing but satisfaction. He tries to concentrate on the ceiling tiles again, but finds he can't. He just listens to the sound of V's laboured breathing.

Not just V's breathing. There's someone else down there alive too. Probably not for long.

V sounds like he's hurt, but L knows it could be worse, that his wounds aren't bad enough to kill him. God knows why, by all rights, the man should be dying, having faced what he's just face. L stays quiet, listening to the hysterical sounding rasps. He wonders if V even remembers he's up here.

Back to the ceiling tiles.

It isn't until he's counted them all again that it finally sinks in that there's only one person breathing in the room down below him. He can hear the echo of V's footsteps, he knows the sound by heart, fading into the distance. He must have gone to set off his train, to blow up his building.

L is alone, except for whatever of Creedy's soldiers is unconscious on the floor beneath him.

Cautiously, oh so cautiously, he leans over and peeks down, to see if he can tell who else there is left. V hasn't left him with much recourse, here. The tiles are wet, his feet are bare, his hands are bound, and the clamber down from his hiding place will be dangerous. Practically impossible.

He's going to try anyways. He climbs to his knees and shuffles awkwardly to the edge of the beam, to the place where it meets the wall. There's a poster case there, one that no doubt used to hold some kind of advertisement but has been empty for years. He can use it for at least some purchase, since it's up to him to get down.

L tries to get as good a grasp as he can manage, with his numb fingers, and edges tentatively off. His feet scrabble for purchase on the tile. He gets it, and lowers himself awkwardly. One foot down, two feet, three, and he digs his fingernails in as best he can. It hurts, but if his hands don't slip, he just might make it.

His hands slip.

Just his fucking luck.

Next thing he knows he's on the ground, and the world is hazy. From what he can tell, he has struck his head, but not enough to do serious damage. It hurts, but not too badly.

His ankle doesn't start hurting until he tries to move it, and then black spots promptly swim in front of his eyes, and to his embarrassment he lets out a pained shriek. There's no one there to hear it.

It's definitely broken.

He manages to get into a sitting position without jostling it too much, and once he has, looks around to take stock of the situation. There's a payphone, that he doubts is working and that he has no money for anyways. There's bodies everywhere, that he can't look at.

There's a red rose in Adam Sutler's jacket that draws his eye. The man is lying on his back, blood on his forehead, a white handkerchief in his breast pocket. The rose petals look soft, like Valerie's smile. The blossom rises and falls, with Sutler's breath.

Hang _on._

Without looking down at his foot, because he's sure the sight of it will only make it hurt worse, L takes a deep breath. It's only a few feet to where Sutler's lying. He's sure he can drag himself that far.

And he can. He almost blacks out on the way, certainly, but sheer determination sees him through, and insatiable curiosity. Sutler is alive. Why is Sutler alive? How is he alive? L reaches him, and presses two fingers to his wrist. There is a pulse, thready and weak, but there. There is the faint whistle of breath, coming out of his nose.

The handkerchief in his pocket. It's glaringly white, and L can see a little bit of red embroidery in the corner. At first glance, it might read 'V.' But the angle of the stitching is all wrong.

Looking closely, he can see that it's a perfect, ninety-degrees L. Perhaps the two aren't so dissimilar, after all.

He clutches the handkerchief tight in his hand, and looks away from Sutler, to the tunnel V must have disappeared into. The blood spatters on the floor are worrisome, but he could barely make it this far. He's in no shape to follow terrorist, no matter how badly he wants to.

Absurdly struck by this gesture, the living man he's sitting over, he clutches the handkerchief a little tighter, and brings it absently to his mouth.

He draws a deep breath, and lets out a sharp laugh at his own naive stupidity, at the unmistakable scent. But there is only time for the one laugh.

The chloroform V used on Sutler hits him like a metric ton of bricks. The blackness that swims up and swallows him is nearly a relief.

V hears the laughter, and turning, slams a fist into the wall, unable to swallow the bitter swell crashing through him.

Disappointment, frustration, exhaustion, and heavy, weighing _failure _drag through him. His promises are broken, his aspirations are spent. Everything he can remember living for, every dream he ever had, has gone up in smoke. It's thanks to the man back in that room, whose laughter is echoing behind him.

It takes considerable effort not to turn around and storm back, and plant a knife square in one of L's big, shocky eyes. Part of him thinks it would serve the detective just right.

But that is not an option, and he knows it.

L won, fair and square. He didn't kill Sutler. He couldn't kill Sutler. Not with the detective sitting above him, holding his breath, his stupid, naive concepts of justice written in his eyes. He couldn't kill Sutler, and now all he has is a train with a meaningless message in it.

If he couldn't see this through, then what right does he have to finish the rest of it?

He'll dismantle the explosives now, before anything can go wrong. Before any more innocents can be hurt in his failed vendetta.

It doesn't take long to reach the subway platform at all, not once he's pulled the suit of armour out from under his jacket. Bleeding only a little, from a wound that's mostly superficial, he considers counting how many bullets he took. But that would be too morbid, he figures.

Elsewhere, Matt enters at a stumbling run. He trips over the first of the bodies, and jumps over the second, and stumble-staggers his way to where L is lying, unconscious, on top of another body. Sutler's. L's eyes are closed and he's breathing, and he has blood in his hair from what looks like a crack to the back of his head, and an obviously broken ankle.

He's probably lucky he's unconscious, Matt figures. Especially for what's about to come. He slips an arm under his knees, and another behind his back, and lifts him. His ankle must sure hurt, because he stirs and makes a pained noise, that's far more vulnerable sounding than Matt can comfortably deal with right now, so he ignores it in favour of getting L to the car.

Matt only comes back for Sutler because L would probably kill him if he didn't. In his haste, he leaves the rose lying on the grimy floor, dirty water staining it's dark petals.

Down the tunnels and back to where V is still struggling, the armour clatters to the ground, and his boot steps echo on the tiles. His head is swimming, and he thinks it might be a case of simple hyperventilation. Perhaps it's just the shock; the evening has been rather traumatic.

His train, his erstwhile funeral pyre, is awaiting him. Empty, and beautiful, and so heartbreakingly and suddenly pointless. V climbs aboard, and reaches for the first of the wires.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" asks a voice he recognizes, and V doesn't bother to look up when the gun cocks. What does he care if he dies? It's over, he lost.

"Back the fuck away from the bomb, Zorro."

[AN: Clliiiiiiiffhanger. Um, ish. I can't believe this is almost done! You have no idea how many times I wrote and rewrote this chapter.


	21. jumping with sensation

who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space

through images juxtaposed, and trapped the

archangel of the soul between 2 visual images

and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun

and dash of consciousness together jumping

with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna

Deus

_"Is he alright?" asks Near, worriedly into the phone._

_"His ankle's broken and he's unconscious, but his pulse is good and he's breathing."_

_"You need to get him out of there." Nervous and wiry, and none of them can stand the thought of L getting hurt, of L being hurt, of him unconscious and unable to sit and help and think and judge and swoop in and save them with his gigantic, overarching intellect._

_"Thank you, Near, yes, I did figure that one out on my own."_

**Chapter Twenty One.**

**November 4****th**** (barely)**

**The Underground**

**London**

"Back the fuck away from the bomb, Zorro."

V glances up, just awake enough to feel faintly indignant at the interruption. Not to mention the nickname. Mello stares at him, smiling from behind his gun, and shrugging languidly. It's easy for him, V thinks, it isn't his dream that's been sacrificed on the cruel rocks of L's morality tonight.

The regret is bone deep, but he does not think, even now, that he would undo it.

"I'm dismantling it," he explains, patiently, "you don't have to worry." As though Mello was worrying at all. The young man lifts a chocolate bar to his lips, of all things, and bites off a piece. V feels a _little _bit more indignant. No one should be that nonchalente.

"It's thirty two past eleven," Mello says, as though this still means something. V stares at him, glad that he doesn't have to school his expressions. Mello promised once to kill him, if they ever met on their own. For what he did to Matt and if he ever hurt L, and he's certainly hurt L some throughout this.

From the glint in the blue eyes, it looks like he's considering it.

"Get out of the train."

Because he has no reason not to, and because curiosity is rearing it's head to war with despair and frustration, V does. The barrel of the gun lowers, as though it made any difference to begin with, and Mello glances through the doors of the train, then back at V. He slips the chocolate bar into the pocket of his jacket, and sidles into the train.

It would be fairly easy for V to take him out from behind as he inspected the explosives, but he does not. He just watches Mello explore, and knows, from the parts he examines and the parts he does not, that the man knows something about bombs.

Probably just as much as V does, if not more. But then, he is L's apprentice. V isn't really surprised that he's just as unorthodox as his bedfellow. He sizes up the way Mello moves, the set of his shoulders, the casual grip on the gun and the singing tension, and tries to contrast it against Matt's peaceful ease.

"These are impressive," Mello observes, emerging from the compartment. He has one of V's long stemmed roses between his fingers, swinging, blossom down, like a pendulum. He's playing with it unconsciously, clever and nimble.

V watches it's progress and imagines a clock. He looks up at Mello's face and half expects to see the time being counted down.

"I'm not going to kill you," Mello says, "I just want to talk to you. To help you, even."

V cocks his head to the side. "That's a rather drastic change of tune," he observes, and Mello shrugs, spinning the rose in a circle, like a baton.

"Is L alright? Is Sutler?"

V considers lying to him, to see if Mello would shoot him or not, but instead answers honestly,

"They both are. I can tell you where, if you need to go retrieve them." He left L stranded up on a beam, didn't he? With his arms bound. The man will have no way of getting down from there on his own, not unless he manages to undo the knots, and V doesn't think that will be possible.

"We already know." Mello shrugs again, and gives him a cocky little grin. "Matt's gone to get them. Near figured out where you'd be meeting Creedy."

Ah, yes. N. V wonders if it's an accident that it's L M N, and decides it couldn't possibly. At least he knows if there's an O, that it'll be practically a preteen. He isn't precisely sure why his mind is wandering. It's probably to avoid facing the truth of the moment; everything he _was _has come to _nothing._

"Eleven thirty eight," Mello observes, glancing down at his watch, "so are we going to blow this shit up, or what?"

For a long, nearly hysterical moment, V isn't even sure that he's heard right. The childish part of him wants to answer 'or what.' But Mello continues.

"Because there's a lot of people out there wearing your face right now, walking for you and relying on you, and those are some very, very pretty explosives and I honestly think that there's a building out there that could do with blowing up."

"Without Sutler, it's just a building," V replies, uncertain. Mello is still twirling his rose. He flicks his hair out of his eyes with the thumb of the hand holding the gun, and slides it smoothly out of sight somewhere.

"Nah," he replies, "that's not right at all." He turns away and sits, on one of the old benches, that used to be commonly used when people moved through here, before it all closed down. V stays standing, watching Mello's curious poise, and bright eyed earnestness. He wonders if, under the anger and itchy trigger finger, and resentment and everything, Mello might not be the tiniest bit naive.

If he is, he probably keeps it hidden. But then, he wears his rosary around his neck, plain as day. So maybe he doesn't. Maybe he isn't, maybe it's all just a figment of V's overstrained imagination.

"Look." Mello leans forwards, resting an arm on his knee and curling a loose fist around the rose stem, "do you have any idea how many people are up there?"

V shakes his head, no. He imagined that there would be thousands, in his grandest plans, but if they're already gone amok then it could be any number.

"Thousands," replies Mello, with acid-washed earnestness, childish excitement clothed in peculiar sadism. "And this is all something you've built. But it's bigger than Sutler, and whether he's dead or not. It's bigger than you, too, whether or not you created it. Not to go all Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde on you and everything, but your creation is knocking on the door and it wants fire."

V has never read Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. It was banned, for being obscene, and he's never got his hands on it, despite his best efforts. That and 1984.

"Not in a bloody mob way, but man, I was out there, and these people really, really need a boom to rally around. You _can't _disappoint them."

Pyromania clothed in revolutionary idealism, V thinks, and nearly laughs. Mello smells the scarlet carson, inhaling deeply and glancing back at his train. At London's train, as he should probably be thinking of it.

Mello really is right.

"How long will it take?"

"We should set it off the moment the bells strike." Yes, they should. No doubt they will, too, because Mello has convinced him. And he knows it, too, given the grin V receives.

"Fuck yes."

Now, all there is to do is to wait. Mello picks up a cell phone, and starts talking into it in Japanese- he's fairly sure they're all communicating in this language because L is most comfortable with it, or perhaps because V's uncomfortable with it. He catches Matt's name, and Near's, he thinks, but can't be sure.

The call doesn't take more than two minutes. They sit in silence for a little while longer, until eventually, V finds it in him to ask;

"So why again, is it, that you aren't trying to kill me?" Mello had been very specific, after all, and while there is no barbed wire on hand, V has no difficulty imagining that Mello would be able to come up with some sort of grizzly alternative.

"Oh," replies Mello, breezily, "Matt thinks you're cool. Matt's always a better judge than me about that kind of thing. I do plans, he does people, I do intimidation, he does negotiation. We've got the yin yang thing going on, I know better than to fuck with it. I'm really a very zen person, in my own way." So earnestly said that it can't possibly be anything but tongue in cheek. Mello will never be described as 'zen.'

V is fairly sure that this isn't the real reason, but is prepared to let it drop. He watches instead Mello's hands, continuing to play with his rose.

"What will you do once this is over?" Mello asks, curiously, and V is drawn up extremely short. He doubts very much that Mello is going to let him ride that train, no matter how much he might want to. That leaves him stuck with having to come up with an answer.

"Catch up on my reading," he eventually manages, "tend my roses, probably aid whatever government rises out of the ashes in sticking to the straight and narrow. Probably with a different face, and as much from the shadows as possible, but... it might be nice to see England's first few steps."

"Yeah," Mello agrees, "hey, if you're looking for something good, pick up Brave New World. Or, um, Sherlock Holmes, or 1984."

V just _has _to laugh. Mello, he can tell, isn't quite sure why, but grins in return.

The deep sound of the bells rings through the room. The time has crept up on them, sudden and swift.

"Hickory dickory dock, baby," Mello jumps to his feet, and gestures sweepingly at the train, "you do the honours. Then let's get up high where we can see the show."

V, breath in his throat, walks to the train and throws the switch, stepping out with only the tiniest bit of regret. Mello grabs him by the hand and starts dragging him up to a reasonable vantage point.

This is what it feels like to be poised on the brink.

About three minutes previous.

Matt stands up, climbing out of the chair at the side of L's couch. He's set the detective's foot, back in the apartment, because they can't very well go to a nurse and hope to find one on a night where all the city is out walking. Not to mention one who would take care of someone who isn't technically allowed to be within the country.

But that's alright, he's more than competent enough at medicine to set a bone. He learned as much as he could after figuring out that Mello was never, ever going to stop getting nearly blown to smithereens and the only thing to do was to know how to stitch him back up..

L's eyes open, slowly, and Matt hears Near shoot out of his chair, and to L's side. He turns and watches, as L's face breaks in a tentative, triumphant smile. His eyes slip past Near, and to the clock on the wall, and Matt follows his gaze and reads the expression on his face.

"I'll carry you," he says, walking forwards, rather than wasting time on an argument he won't win. "Near, get the door. We've got two minutes to get onto the roof."

They make it with seconds to spare, stepping out onto the gravel top as the first bars of 1812 begin to flare. Matt sets L gently on his good foot, keeping an arm around him to take most of his weight. Near claims his other hand, because it's been a year. The music swells, the tension stretches, and L feels his breath catch painfully in his throat.

So does V, buildings and ages away.

The first crash echoes through the very ground. Music and explosions, in unison. Near feels it rocking through him like a frenzied heartbeat, and Matt feels something in his heart soar. Mello whispers a small 'yes,' under his breath, and V grins behind his mask.

L has to close his eyes, and the glow of the flames paints his face orange, even from this distance. Matt watches the explosions and Near watches L, just for a moment, before turning back to the fireworks now shooting into the sky.

_It's so beautiful, _think thousands of people, lost in a colossal, moral unison. Standing together, spirits lifted, hearts echoing with the music. Their minds resound together, and even miles away, Evey Hammond tosses in her sleep and dreams of fire.

V slips out while Mello watches the explosions, filled with a peculiar heat and pride and awesome, powerful joy.

L sags back into Matt's arms, and lets himself be carried back inside without protest, ankle throbbing, heat in his cheeks. He swallows the chalky pill he's given, and closes his eyes, sure that he'll be able to sleep, even through the noises of the glad mob racing haphazardly through the streets.

Freedom has come back to England.

V has gone back to his Shadow Gallery.

L is properly unconscious, not just napping or drowsing, for the first time in a month.

Mello is on his way home, and Matt is waiting anxiously for him on the doorstep, wanting a cigarette and not having one, because he's racing Mello to twenty five.

Near is slowly and deliberately making ants on a log.

Evey is waking up, slowly and with a smile.

November Fifth has dawned, and the that morning sun rises through the smoke of the explosions and on a changed world.

[AN: I feel the need to mention again at this point how beautiful Allen Ginsberg is and how in love I am with that poem, and how creepily it has sometimes fit this humble plot. Also, how freaked out I am at the word count of this beast. It's HUGE.


	22. their own bodies

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human

prose and stand before you speechless and intel-

ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con-

fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm

of thought in his naked and endless head,

the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown,

yet putting down here what might be left to say

in time come after death,

and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in

the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the

suffering of America's naked mind for love into

an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone

cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio

with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered

out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand

years.

_Mr Finch turns over in bed, and the first thing he sees is, as usual, the mask on his bedside table._

_He couldn't catch the man, but then, he didn't want to. So he walked for him instead, and that is enough for him. He is a part of the new government and he is more at peace than he has ever been in his entire life._

**Chapter Twenty Two**

**May 30****th**

**The Hague**

**The Netherlands**

There'll be a two hour break, announces someone near the judge, and Near sighs in relief, reaching to straighten his tie, then wraps his fingers through his hair. He's been wanting to all afternoon, but fiddling while presenting his case would demonstrate nervousness, which is something he cannot afford. For all that Adam Sutler is guilty, he is still a powerful man, and Near cannot present his case with anything less than impeccability.

Even if he could get away with it, he feels like it would be wrong. It would be unfair to Gordon, for one thing, and to everyone else who died, and most of all to Evey. She sits in the back of the courtroom every day, he can feel her eyes on him. They don't speak, he doesn't acknowledge her presence, but he knows she's there.

Near ducks into the washroom before the reporters can corner him, and nearly starts at the sight of himself. He's in a dark blue suit, and a dark patterned tie. His hair is trimmed fashionably, and is out of his eyes. He still looks far too young to be doing this; the council for the defense attorney is grey haired and prestigious.

But L insisted, and when have any of them ever denied L anything he wanted? And besides, he's going to be twenty soon. It doesn't hurt for him to do some growing up. He washes his hands, and then his face, and towels it off carefully, before turning to head back out into the hall.

The most important evidence by far was Delia's journal, and try as they might to cast doubt upon it, everyone in the room felt how important it was as Near explained it, page by page. The little red book, and the photographs Mello took, projected up on the wall, of mass graves and destroyed buildings, of empty cells and restraints, and cracked tiles in showering rooms.

No one takes kindly to concentration camps, and even Sutler, with his damnable cockiness and irritating poise had flinched.

At least, Near still thought, it wasn't Creedy giving testimony. The man's body had been found in the aftermath of what people were already calling 'the revolution.' Near was more than a little bit glad to hear he wouldn't have to let the man off for what he'd done. He was most certainly not going to tell L that, of course. But then, L probably knew, he usually tended to.

He knew it was coming, but it was still somehow surprising to be confronted by the multitude of flashbulbs, the moment he stepped out into the hallway.

"Mister Gordon," Nathan Gordon, was the name he practiced law under, he hadn't asked Evey what she thought about it, but he didn't really think it was her right to say yes or no, so it didn't trouble him too much, "How's the case going?"

"Very well, thank you, Miss Miller," he replies, with a faultlessly polite smile. The reporter blushes, the others around her laugh and more cameras go off. He has become known for remembering the names of the people who harass him. It proves a lot more difficult to follow someone who asks you politely and by name not to.

He also indulges them by stopping to answer their questions occasionally. Now, he supposes is as good a time as any.

"I have five minutes, ladies and gentlemen, but then I really do need some lunch." He lets a little bit of his distress show and gets an easy laugh from them. Mello has not stopped teasing him about his hidden charisma since the whole trial began. Near replied, very calmly, that knowing what to do was very simple, and it was only a question of doing it.

"You are in the employ of the infamous L?" a man asks him, and Near resists the urge to roll his eyes. They've been over this.

"L cooperated in this investigation, so of course we overlap to some degree. A lot of the evidence I present he gathered, but my work here is nothing to do with his organization, aside from the help he gave us." And this is even true. The two branches are technically separate, Near just happens to be a part of both of them, and to essentially do whatever L wants him to, ninety nine percent of the time.

Oh well, the press don't need to know this.

"Have you ever had face to face contact with L?" another reporter asks, excitedly. Ever since Kira, the detective's name has become a rather public one, and a source of great interest to a lot of people. Near just smiles in the direction of that reporter, in a wistful way.

"I don't think I'm that good a lawyer, Mr Jameson."

Truthfully, a couple of years ago, he would never have imagined himself capable of this sort of thing. But they all laugh, again, and the sound reassures him.

"What do you think about the allegations against L?" someone asks, and he blinks in their direction, this time in real consternation.

"I'm not familiar with them," he admits, letting his voice sound a little bit curious. He can't betray too much, technically he has no real position on L, but as _Near_ he wants to know very badly.

"That L is playing God by interfering in country politics, and that he's no better than Kira."

Near lets that one wash over him for a long, startled moment. It's hard, because it's close enough to the truth that he knows L has wondered about it, worried about it, tossed and turned it over in his mind.

"I don't mean to resort to emotional hits to win my arguments," he begins slowly, "but I... let me say this. I haven't presented our entire case yet, but I have prepared it. And whatever people think, I am grateful. A lot of people have died, and more would have. I know that L had nothing to do with the revolution that took place, but it's because of his or her work that we're able to prosecute the ex-Chancellor today."

Reporters around him are writing furiously. When did he get this good at sounding so pathetically normal?

"I for one see nothing wrong with that. Well then." He makes his hasty escape.

Someone follows him up the hallway towards the cafeteria, and he turns to ask them to leave, with a little bit more irritation in his face. But it turns out it's Evey.

Well, he deflates almost immediately, of course, and smiles at her.

"You're really scary," is the first thing she says, pushing her hair over her shoulder, nervously. Near blinks at her, a little bit owlishly, but he does know what she means.

"You were always so young looking," she tries to explain, and he cuts her off with a short nod.

"I know. I do need to eat, Evey." Her face falls. It's been months, and he can tell she's nervous. "But if you'd like to join me you're welcome."

She does. They walk side by side down the hall, and even though he acts taller, his legs are still a little shorter than hers, and he still has to look up a bit to meet her eyes.

"You seem so _different,"_ she observes, as he pulls out the chair for her at the lunch table, brusque and gentlemanly, because this is the world he needs to live in now. It sounds like it sort of frightens her. It frightens him too, a lot of the time, but he's a genius, isn't he? And if L can be captured by a terrorist for a year, and if Matt can drive around shooting things up and if Mello can help blow up parliament, then surely he can play his part, too.

Her smile turns a lot more open when his fingers curl back into his hair while he orders.

Well, he's not sorry.

These sorts of things take forever. Major international trials always do and always will, especially when the media is involved. This means hours of work for Near every day for weeks and then months.

L hobbles through the first part of the case on crutches, making life miserable for everyone around him by moving at terrible, suicidal high speeds. He is out of the habit of asking people to bring him sweets, and for the first time they all wish that he would.

Mello says he's going to break more than his ankle, and Matt threatens to drug his tea until he agrees to go live in Wammy's, because they at least have an elevator and his apartment has stairs up the front steps that he almost topples down once or twice. He does, but doesn't sleep in the room he shared with Light.

He starts solving cases the way you play with a rubix cube. Absently and constantly, with the news on in the background, following England and the Netherlands, for any sign of either Near or... well. It's good for him, he knows, he can feel. He's in desperate need of the rest, and even he has noticed that his health has become poor, recently. He starts sleeping on and off, at Matt's steadfast insistence, and lets them make him eat 'real food' on occasion.

"You can't turn thirty and expect to go on year long crusades toppling totalitarian states and breaking bones and not sleeping or eating and still just bounce _back," _Matt explains, firmly, "None of us are fifteen any more."

Only they could be twenty and past their prime. What a strange subculture they inhabit.

Near writes.

V, obviously, doesn't.

L wishes the cast would come off _faster, _and then decides abruptly he can't wait any more, and one day is on a plane back to England, without telling Matt or Mello or Near where he's going. He doesn't need to, it's pretty easy to guess.

V follows the case too, watching Near and reflecting on the fact that he is the one he never really got to know. He watches for signs of L, and finds him, here and there. He steers his new government into power, and starts the ball rolling very nicely if he says so himself. He tends his roses.

Matt and Mello race each other to their birthdays, and Mello wins again. They fly to the Netherlands to spend the day with Near, walking and laughing through foreign streets, old and finally being young.

Finch becomes a powerful government official. He insists on establishing the new government as a democracy. V wishes he'd had a chance to meet him, he thinks he might have liked the man. He's assassinated in late September by militant protesters, sparking outcry in all of England. The man who replaces him is another honest one, who was his assistant for a long time, and who Matt once punched in a news station. At the memorial, he talks about causes, and how when a man is a part of an idea, he lives forever.

Evey stays on in the Netherlands most of the time. She starts stammering and blushing around Near a lot, who's fairly sure he isn't interested and doesn't make a move, but does think about it sometimes. She's beautiful, and he's aware that biologically he's at a point where his body... but he doesn't say anything and she eventually goes back to Wammy's.

L moves back into his apartment in London, and waits patiently for a sign. V will send him one, he thinks, hopes, prays, knows. He must know he's here.

V does, but the whole ending was too... not _right _for him to go rushing to L right away. He doesn't think he's ever going to, to be honest, until finally, he reads 1984. It's both wonderful and disappointing, and beautiful and frightening and it reduces him to helpless, irrational tears in the darkness of his stifling sanctuary.

L gets the message less than a day later. He isn't sure if he's glad, or just nervous, or curious as to why it took so long. The paper is slipped underneath his door, and bending to pick it up with a broken ankle is an irritating ordeal to say the least, but he makes do.

_Under the spreading chestnut tree,_

_When will that be?_

It names a date, in four days time.

And if Oranges and Lemons say the bells of St Clements, and L wanted to know when V would pay him and the answer was when he grew rich at the bells of shoreditch, then when will that be will be I do not know, says the big bell of Bow. L's brain goes off like scattershot fireworks in all directions, and he has to eat an entire box of sugary cereal over the course of three hours spent curled up on his couch watching Basil Rathbone before he can think straight.

The Great Bell of Bow is the bell of the church of St Mary-le-Bow, which is just off Cheapside, in London. V could probably have just knocked here, and L would have let him in, but then, L sort of owes V a tremendous amount, and if V wants to play the game in riddles that they both know the answer to, then who is he to complain?

It isn't difficult to travel through London. He passes various masked people in the streets, most of them with V's face still, worn like a fashionable article of clothing; the latest in a style of hats. L, maskless and slouched and barefoot and foreign, stands out some, and he gets an odd look or two, because no matter how big the explosion was, some things do not change overnight. But not enough for him to be stopped.

This time, when he gets to the church, V is there first. L sees him sitting the moment he comes in, facing the altar, more as if in repose than in prayer. Belying his restful appearance, V inclines his head the instant L hobbles into the room. He is ever watchful, and his hearing is still as acute as ever.

L moves in, making his way slowly, and then V stands and turns and L gives him a wild, mad, giddy grin of blinding, unexpected joy, thankfulness, regret, hope, childishness, mutual understanding, frustration and a thousand other things all at once that make V bark out a sharp, relieved laugh.

"Near's winning," is the first thing the detective says, crossing the room in easy strides. He looks a little older, V can't help but notice.

"I know," he replies, "he's good. You must be very proud. Your foot is broken?"

"You did leave me on the ceiling," L reminds him, "I wasn't going to stay up there."

V forgot, of course, to factor in L's suicidal determination when he played out how the evening would go.

"I read—" V starts to say, and L nods, because he knows what the chestnut tree was a reference to. He thinks of Winston and Julia's final meeting, of them looking at each other, and both knowing that they have sold each other out.

"Thank you." He never got a chance to say this, before, with the blood and chloroform and bombs. "And I'm glad that you were right."

"I am sorry about your ankle," V replies, a little bit ruefully, and L knows that he is at least in part forgiven for stealing V's prize, even though it came as a gift. He wonders if he should admit to accidentally knocking himself out. But it's too embarrassing to even think about.

Maybe much, much later.

"What are you going to do now?" V asks, gloved hand curling around the back of one of the wooden seats. The bells above them begin to ring; it's one am. L waits for the tolling to stop before he answers.

"That depends on whether you mind company." V's fingers tap out a rhythm. L can tell he's imagining the piano.

"Yours?" V questions, "For how long?"

L shrugs. A surprisingly awkward affair with the crutches and all. He can be L from anywhere. Secret chambers underneath London are included.

"Alright," replies V, "then we'd best be off."

Simple as that, well, as simple as a year's fight can be, they go.

_Fin. _


End file.
